Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Kodiak Bear Country
Summary: Sheppard and McKay are in dire straits, but one remembers nothing and the other hovers on deaths door[COMPLETE].
1. Part One

**Something Wicked This Way Comes**

_**There's nothing in this world so sweet as love, And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.  
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow**_

He was walking through a forest. He felt his bare feet against the damp mossy ground, and felt his heels sink lower, as he walked towards what he didn't know. There were tall sparse trees on either side of the path he was following, and the uneven foliage allowed beams of sunlight to seek the forest floor. He looked ahead wondering how he came to be here, where was here, but he couldn't remember. He kept walking. Weak columns of mist rose smoldering off the ground, the stubborn remnants of morning dew being burned off by the persistent heat of day.

Despite the beautiful surroundings, he felt an unease deep in his gut, and he searched the area even as he moved for signs of…he couldn't remember. An enemy, he knew it was an enemy…hunting him? He heard someone calling ahead! He picked up his pace, and ran forward, seeking out the desperate calls. His friends…he knew it was his friends! "Where are you?" he shouted. He tripped, and fell hard. The wet mulch stuck to his face, as he scrambled back to his feet, and started running again.

There was a bend further on. He froze, and stared uncertainly at the trail. A mounting dread chilled his bones, and he felt a cold sweat coat his skin, slicking his face in clammy fear. He didn't want to see what was there. He faltered, and found his feet moving backwards, instead of forward. This was wrong. His friends needed him. "No," he muttered desperately, trying to stop his backward movement, and help those he cared about.

A bright light grew on the path ahead, stronger, and blinding. He threw a hand in front of his face to block his eyes from the painful glare. "No…" he cried. They were dead! "No!" he hollered, agonized, and he felt his heart racing to a dance of guilt and anger. "This isn't real," he said, stumbling away from the light.

"John, wake up!"

He felt himself begin to shake, but from what; fear, loathing, or maybe the cold sweat that had drenched his body from head to toe. "No, no…no," he continued to mutter in a litany of denial.

"John, please…wake up!"

The insistent shaking, and the voice, broke through, and John opened his eyes, lurching upright with a gasp. He swallowed, and stared confused at the young girl's face that was staring back with unfettered concern. He felt a cool breeze tickle across his chest, and looked down, realizing he was bare chested, and the white muslin sheet had slipped to his waist when he'd sat.

His fingers fumbled, pulling the material higher in a protective gesture. "Where…where am I?" he stuttered. It was dark, except for a small light from a candle that burned pitifully by his bedside.

The girl leaned back, relieved that he was awake. She was dressed in a pale gown, brown hair skewed from sleep, and the concern had been replaced by disappointment. "You don't remember," she said, and it wasn't a question, but a flat statement.

"Remember what?" He fought for any glimmer of recognition, but he had none. He didn't know this person in front of him, anymore than he knew the room, or how he'd come to be here.

The girl stood, straightening her gown that was clinging to her legs. She regarded him with a fleeting smile. "It's late, and you should rest. We'll talk in the morning."

John reached a desperate hand for her arm, keeping her from going. "No, please…tell me…I don't…" he swallowed again, why couldn't he remember anything? "I don't know what's going on."

"The doctors said this might happen," she assured him. "John, it's late, and I'm tired. It's best if this waits till morning."

She started moving towards a door he could now see against the wall across from the foot of his bed. He couldn't wait. He felt an unreasonable fear of what was missing in his mind. He leapt out of bed, hardly noticing that his only clothes were a pair of boxers. "No! I need to know now."

She stared for a minute, considering, and then acceded. "Alright," she said softly. She opened the door, and started to leave, but turned back, looking at him pointedly. "You might want to at least put on some pants. I'll start a fire, but it's still cool in the sitting room."

John looked down and for the first time realized his lack of dress. He looked back towards the bed, wondering where his clothes were, before he spotted a pair of black trousers lying draped over a chair against the wall. He hurriedly slipped them on, and the white shirt that was underneath the pants, before following the girl out to the sitting room.

He saw her bend, and shuffle a thin pile of tender, starting a small fire before adding thicker logs on top. She tucked a straggling strand of hair impatiently behind an ear while she worked. John took the time to observe the room. It was almost Victorian, with papered walls, high back chairs, and a thick stone and pine hearth. A threadbare rug covered the worn wooden floor. Everything seemed old, and used, and again he remembered none of it.

"You should sit. You're still weak."

He jerked, startled, having become lost in his thoughts. She was standing beside one of the chairs, and watched him intently. "Weak?" He felt more confused than tired. Why would he be weak? Still, he walked to the other chair, feeling the floor shift, and creak, as he moved across it.

"You were hurt…in the accident," explained the girl. She hesitated, "Would you like something to drink?"

He couldn't shake the feeling that she was uneasy. Because of him, or because of what had happened to him? He realized he was thirsty. "Yes, I would," he replied, "Thank you."

She disappeared through a side door, and he heard the clinking of dishes. He leaned back into the comforting softness of the padded material, and gazed at the fire, losing himself in thought. Who was he? She'd called him John, and it felt right, but John who? He struggled, and felt it was there, on the periphery of his mind, but each time he fought to put a word to the thought, it slipped away, like an elusive exotic butterfly, taunting the begging collector.

"I hope tea is alright." The girl sat a tray with a porcelain pitcher and two delicate cups on a table between the chairs.

He frowned. Tea…he had a flash of himself speaking to another woman. _I like a brisk cup of tea in the morning,_ but he didn't know who the woman in the memory was. The flash disappeared as quickly as it'd arrived.

"John?" She was holding a cup out to him and watching him apprehensively.

He reached for it, "I'm sorry, I was…" he stopped, strangely reluctant to share the image. He smiled, trying to cover his internal struggle. "I don't even know your name."

The cup was hot against his palms, and he took a tentative sip, surprised by the spicy taste, and surreptitiously viewed the girl as he drank. She looked young, thin brown hair, and, for the time being, she seemed to care about his welfare, so he assumed she wasn't a threat. Threat? Why would he worry about the girl being a threat? He took another drink, trying to hide his growing alarm regarding the situation he found himself in.

"Marie," said the girl kindly. "My name is Marie."

John thought the name fit the surroundings. "Nice to meet you, Marie." He set the now drained cup on the platter gingerly. "How did I get here?" he asked. It occurred to him that he didn't even know where _here_ was.

Marie sipped her own tea slowly, firelight splaying a painter's palette of light and shadow across her face, while she digested his question and formed a reply. "Three days ago a party from your world arrived. There was an explosion on your craft, and when we arrived, we found only the two of you still alive. You suffered a head injury, and the doctor released you into my care yesterday," she was telling him what had happened, but the words didn't spark anything familiar. "You've had trouble recalling anything since you regained consciousness."

John mulled over the information, unsettled in the memory lapse. He felt he should know. He couldn't keep the agitation out of his voice. "I don't remember!"

Marie stood, and moved to his side, kneeling and placing a comforting hand on his arm. "John, it's okay. You're safe, give it time. The doctor said…"

John yanked his arm back, "I don't care what the doctor said," he snarled, surprising both of them with his venomous tone. "I want to remember why I'm here, and who I am."

She pushed back, "Maybe I should call the doctor. You're not feeling well."

"I'm feeling fine, I just want answers," he retorted. He didn't know why he was losing it with this girl, but there was an unquenchable anger welling up from deep down, and he struggled to subdue its rising tide.

"I can't control your mind. I can't give you more than what I know," she said, upset. She pushed away from him, her instinct to comfort overwhelmed by his aggression.

He watched as she retreated, walking stiffly to stand behind her chair, purposefully distancing herself from him, and her face reflected his frustration. He was taking out his confused emotions on her, and he felt a pang of remorse. She wasn't to blame for his situation, and from all that he could tell; she was taking care of him. "I'm sorry." He stood up, and approached her, holding out a hand in peace.

She accepted his hand in her own, and allowed herself to be guided back into her chair. He could feel her relax, and she put aside his earlier rudeness, "I know you are confused," she said sympathetically. "It must be hard to not remember anything about your past."

He went back to his chair, and sat heavily, surprised to feel the first edges of the weakness she'd mentioned before. "Yes, it is." He remembered she'd mentioned there was another person rescued. "The other one, where is he?"

"The other one?" asked Marie, momentarily thrown. He could see her mind doing a quick repeat of their conversation, and saw when she understood his reference. "Oh, the other man that we rescued with you!"

"Yes, is he here?"

She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, his injuries were severe. They are not certain he will live."

A dark wave engulfed him at her words. He didn't even know who this person was, but it was a lifeline to what he couldn't recall, and the thought that it might disappear like his memories scared him. "Can I see him?"

Marie sighed, from tiredness or impatience, he wasn't sure. "John, you need to rest. When you feel better…"

"No," he countered. "I need to remember. It's important, please."

She pursed her lips, considering his request, and at first he thought she'd put him off, but she reluctantly nodded. "Okay, but not until morning. They won't let you in right now anyway, it's the middle of the night."

He was reluctant to concede, but knew he had to. And, he was starting to feel shaky. He couldn't remember the accident, and he wasn't sure of the exact injuries he'd suffered, but her warning about being weak wasn't so easily dismissed now. He raised a wavering hand to his forehead, surprised to find it damp. "I…I need to go lay down," admitted John. He shivered, and wished for the relief of the bed.

Marie helped John to his feet, and guided him to his room. He leaned against her thin body, letting Marie support his weight. His legs felt tired, like jellied meat in a pie, and he fought to keep from falling. She eased him onto the bed, and pulled the mussed sheets out of the way. He tried to shuck the shirt, but his movements were clumsy. "What's wrong with me?" he asked raggedly, frustrated by this invalid state that had seemingly snuck up on him.

"Shhhh," whispered Marie as she helped his arms out of the sleeves. "It'll be better in the morning." She reached for his pants, tugging them off, and lifted his legs, swinging them onto the bed, and efficiently tucked the sheet over his body, pulling up the blanket that had been kicked to the bottom of the bed earlier. "Rest, John."

A lingering thought was bulging forth, demanding he pay attention. "How do you know my name is John?" he asked, his words slurred slightly as he fought to stay awake.

Marie laid a quieting finger against his lips, and he inhaled the delicate floral soap she must use. "Hush, sleep…" she said. "You whispered it when we found you."

John wanted to ask more but his eyes had already drifted shut of their own volition, and he fell again into an uneasy rest, daunted by visions of people and places he couldn't recall, and the lulling sound of ocean waves slapping into a building he couldn't name.

**Meanwhile, in Atlantis…**

Elizabeth Weir studied the latest report on her desk, and wasn't happy with the contents. Major Sheppard, Doctor McKay, Lieutenant Ford and Teyla had gated to M4X-578 four days ago. They'd gone on foot initially, but returned for the Jumper when signs of inhabitants had been found. There was a possible power source over a mountain that would be impossible to traverse by land. Three days ago, Ford and Teyla had returned, barely alive, each supporting the other equally, and announced the grave news that something alien had brought the Jumper down, and Sheppard and McKay, both of whom had been in the cockpit of the ship, had died when they'd crashed.

Ford had reported from his bed, barely able to keep his voice understandable through his grief, that he'd woken about a hundred yards from the Jumper, only to see the shell of it burning. He'd stumbled to his feet, and searched the area in vain, finding Teyla a short distance away, unconscious, and lying in the brush.

The folder in her hand was the final report, neatly typed, edited, and prepared with a finality that begged her to toss it in the shredder. Inside, the death certificates issued by Doctor Beckett, for Major John Sheppard and Doctor Rodney McKay, and God bless the living because she didn't know how they would pick up the pieces from this loss. The two men had been integral to the city, integral to her, and so many others. Somehow, they'd managed to touch everyone to the level that the withdrawal of their presence was as if a vital organ had been removed from the expedition. It hurt, and she imagined the phantom pains would linger, never quite releasing their grip on her heart. She closed the file, and stood, walking to the exit. She looked one last time at the innocuous paper folder, and then left, not looking back. Peter would have it filed before she returned. Peter would make sure she never had to look at it again.


	2. Part Two

AN: Thanks Livy for the quote fix!

**The Next Morning on M4X-578…**

John woke slowly to a scratching sound, like the skittering of insects across a hard floor, and he turned his head to the side seeking the source. He saw a window; a long thin tree branch was scraping against the pane of glass, and was to blame for the noise. Now that daylight streamed into the bedroom, he took a good look at his surroundings. There was a bed, chair and nightstand, all that he'd seen in the gloomy light when he'd woken before, but now he could make out another worn rug covering the floorboards, and a faded paper on the walls that matched the pattern in the sitting room; dingy blue flowers on a pale pink background. The door was a dark colored wood, and looked old and overwashed, like everything else he'd seen so far. He stretched in the bed, and the springs squealed with his movement. Old, maybe, but it was comfortable. He felt better than he had last night.

The door was pushed open, creaking as it yielded to the insistent force being exerted on the other side. Marie marched in the room, balancing a tray laden with food. "Good morning, it's nice to see you awake," she said. "And with a smile."

He watched her move towards him. She was wearing a red and brown dress, it reminded him of the clothing from the frontier days on Earth. Her hair had been twisted into a knot, and she had a blush of a brisk morning wash still lingering on her cheeks. "It smells good," he said, and indeed it did. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the smell had hit him. His belly grumbled fiercely.

"It was my mother's recipe," she set the tray on his nightstand, and helped him into a sitting position. She settled the food on his lap once he was ready. "She said that when a person feels poorly, this is certain to get them on the road to mending."

"I'm sure it will," he agreed. He lifted the spoon and dipped it into the thick liquid, and took an eager bite. It was good, the flavor was strong, but it tasted better than any oatmeal he'd ever had. He realized she was watching him expectantly. "It's great," he assured her in between bites.

She had her hands clasped in front of her, and she stood awkwardly for a few moments. "If you need anything…"

"I'll be sure to ask," he said.

Marie smiled self-consciously. "When you're done, just yell. I'll be in the kitchen." She gave him a last tentative smile, and retreated from the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

John finished eating, but decided he was going to bring the dishes to her instead of staying in bed any longer. He set the breakfast tray to the side, and threw off the blankets. It was chilly in the house, so he quickly slid on the pants and shirt he'd worn last night, thankful for their warmth, and was relieved to find a pair of socks and shoes on the floor by the chair.

Once dressed, he picked the tray off the bed, and headed for the kitchen. He knew the way to the sitting room, and from there, he remembered Marie walking through a doorway to get the tea. He pushed against that thin wooden door, and was relieved to find that it opened into a rustic kitchen. A wooden stove reminiscent of early western periods was heating the room comfortably, and Marie stood in front, stirring a pot of what he assumed was the oatmeal like dish he'd had for breakfast. She had an apron tied around her waist, and the steam from the pot was curling tendrils of hair around her face.

Once she noticed his presence, she dropped the spoon into the pot, and turned, flustered. "I told you to give a yell when you were finished," she rebuked, reaching for the tray, and turned to take it to a sink that was under the lone window in the room. "John, you need to rest. You're body hasn't recovered."

She hadn't turned to look at him while she lectured, and he took in her tense shoulders. "Recovered from what?" he asked, wanting to know what exactly was causing him to be considered so weak. The illness he'd felt last night had passed, and he felt normal. Normal, but for the total lack of memories of who he was, and what had happened.

She started scrubbing the bowl, and her movements were harsher than he figured that bowl needed to get clean. "You had a bad injury to your head," she said, her breathing hitched as she attacked another dish in the sink that wasn't his. "The doctor said…"

"I'm sick of hearing what the doctor said." He cut her off, because he truly was, it seemed the only thing he _could_ remember was how many times she'd used that same statement. "You said I could see the other guy that was found next to me. I want to go now." He figured the sooner the better. He was afraid of seeing the man. Afraid that he wouldn't recognize him, and that the face would jar nothing more than his pity, but he had to try.

She twisted away from the sink, dropping the rag into the soapy water. "You're not ready," argued Marie. "The trip could be dangerous for you."

He approached her, narrowing the gap to within a few steps, an arms length away. "Why don't you want me to go?" He saw something in her eyes and it bothered him, but he couldn't pin down what it was.

"I don't want you to get worse," trembled Marie.

John realized that her hands were shaking, and he chastised himself. He reached out and took them in his own, steadying her. "I won't." The problem was, he wasn't sure who he was reassuring – Marie, or himself.

She stared at him for a moment, her hands were warm in his grasp, and he could see in her eyes when she reached a decision. She removed her hands, and absently rubbed them against one another. "I'll get the horses," she said. "But first, you need warmer clothing for the trip, Mister." Marie pulled the pot off the stove, and started banking the fire.

John stood awkwardly, uncertain of where this warmer clothing was, and if he was supposed to go get it right now. Horses? He hoped it was the same animal as on Earth. He figured it was. For whatever reason, there was a thing with the languages being the same, or at least what they heard was the same, so either it'd been translated as, or, they were, horses. Whatever it was, he was fast coming to the conclusion that this planet, like all the others, was in a stunted technological state. After that thought had run through his mind he tried to figure out what it meant. Planet? English…his language, but why would he wonder if they spoke something other than English? Was he from somewhere else? Somewhere named Earth?

Marie had finished what she had to do, and was waiting at the doorway. "Well? You were in such a rush…"

"I don't know where the warmer clothes are," he reminded her snippily; the process of understanding even his basic thoughts was giving him an irritable edge. He felt like he was Alice fallen down the rabbit hole, and then he wondered who the heck was Alice and why did she fall in a rabbit hole?

She blushed, and he experienced a flash of guilt. It wasn't her fault he was in this condition. "I'm sorry…" he started to apologize.

"No, it's okay. I keep forgetting…" she fussed with the hem of the apron she had untied and now held in her hands. She stopped herself, and a painful smile flickered for a moment before she replaced it with a kind, genuine one. "Follow me."

John couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on underneath the surface than he could possibly imagine, but he followed her without asking anything else. She took him out a door on the opposite side of the sitting room, and pulled open a closet, taking out a thick overcoat, hat and gloves, handing them to him in rapid succession. "These should fit you, you're about his..."

John fumbled with the articles of clothing, trying to keep them in his arms. "His what?" he asked.

Marie looked abjectly uncomfortable. "Size…my father's size," she clarified, but John didn't think she was being truthful. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

Before he had a chance to question her, another unbidden flash flew across the movie projector inside his head, and he saw another dark haired girl, talking about her father telling stories to her as a child_. My Father told me stories of such a creature when I was a child; _he shook his head, trying to clear the hazy images.

A gentle touch on his arm, and he looked up to find Marie watching him. "John?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Can I help with the horses?" He wanted something to focus on other than the gaps in his mind, and the flashes he was experiencing.

She reached in, and pulled out a dusty chocolate brown coat as thick as the one she'd handed to him. "You most certainly may not," scolded Marie, she continued more gently, "John, I know you don't believe me, but you must rest. I don't think this trip is a good idea, but I'll take you…however, hitching horses? You will get worse."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how much worse could things get, but she'd already slipped on her coat, and was out the door before he could formulate a response. He sighed, and slid his own bulky coat over his shirt, and noticed a mirror on the wall behind him. He turned and studied the reflection. Short, dark hair that needed to be brushed, and he needed a shave. He was startled to realize that he didn't recognize his own face. Shouldn't a person know his or her own face? He grumpily turned his back on the mirror, and shut the closet door. He prayed the man he was going to see would live, because otherwise, he wondered if he'd ever get the answers he was beginning to crave so desperately.

He left through the door, and found himself in a bright white snowscape. It was breathtaking, and the cold air hurt his lungs, but in a way that made him feel alive. He looked back at the house and saw the dilapidated tan shakes on the one story home, and then he turned around three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in a gray weathered timber fence encircling the yard. There was a track broken in the new fallen snow towards another building; a barn, he guessed, from its shape. He could hear murmurs and the neighing of horses. There were tall trees, the same kind as in his dreams, and everything around him had a crystallized hibernating feel. He exhaled, and watched the puff of smoky breath wither away, and it seemed familiar. He'd been in a cold environment before. Another stray picture played in his mind. He was standing beside a mammoth machine, _Well, that was different_, he'd said, and he was talking to another man, whose name he couldn't recall.

He shivered in his coat, and it wasn't from the cold air. He followed the footprints to the barn, and pushed open one of the two large double doors. Marie was fitting a horse with a harness. She looked up when he entered.

"John, do you ever listen?" she asked despairingly, but there was a smile, and he knew she wasn't angry.

He guessed it wasn't in his nature to sit back and take orders, because it hadn't even occurred to him to do what she kept telling him. It was the opposite, he felt a need to constantly pursue his instincts, and they were telling him to move, and to seek out that which might help him. "I guess not," shrugged John. "Can I help?" He tried again, figuring if he was here he might as well be useful.

"No, you may not," she replied sternly. "Besides, I'm finished. I only need to hook them to the sleigh."

Sleigh? He looked around, and didn't see anything that resembled a sleigh. "How far is this hospital?" asked John, wondering how long the trip was, and the thought occurred to him that it might be more than he could handle. He'd only been on his feet for less than an hour, and he was beginning to long for the soft comfort of the chair, and the warmth of the fire.

"The sleigh is out back," informed Marie, "and the hospital is too far to walk." She gathered the tether and started towards him. "Why don't you wait here, I'll be just a minute." She didn't give him a chance to protest, as she led the team out the door he'd come in. He had to step to the side to avoid the bulk of the large animals.

He stared at the horses as they stepped energetically into the outside. At least someone was happy this morning. They were practically prancing, and he did admire their beauty. Maybe the trip wouldn't be so bad. It'd been years since he'd had a sleigh ride. As soon as that thought had passed he tried to recall when he'd ever been on a sleigh, but all he got for his trouble was a growing headache. These short unbidden thoughts were driving him crazy. They were tantalizing glimpses of who he was, and his past, and they appeared without conscious effort, only to disappear and leave nothing more than a vague discontent when he could recall nothing beyond.

"John?"

He looked up, realizing he'd been staring at a bale of hay to the right of the door. Marie was sitting in the sleigh, the reigns clasped tight in her hands, and the horses were nickering and tossing their heads impatiently.

He stepped out, closing the doors behind him. "What are their names?" he asked, as he climbed into the seat and sat beside her. She had a blanket that she slid over his lap, and he was surprised at how warm it felt. She must have had it in the house and got it when she hooked them to the sleigh. How long had he been daydreaming?

Marie seemed pleased he'd asked about the horses. "That one on the right is Darling and the left is Jack."

John grinned at the horses. He felt comfortable around the animals, but like everything else, he didn't know why. "Nice to meet you,Darling and Jack," he said. "Do me a favor guys, don't dump us in the snow."

Marie slapped the reigns, and _tsked_ at the team, which must have been their instructions to go, because they started walking, before sliding into a steady trot. The sleigh glided over the path, and he felt for the first time a sense of happiness. It was hard to let worries bother you when you were flying across the land, and sitting beside a lovely woman.

"So tell me, you live alone?" John realized he knew nothing about this woman Marie, only that she was apparently willing to take him into her home, and nurse him back to health.

He must have said something wrong, because he felt her stiffen against him. "Yes," answered Marie.

When she didn't elaborate he tried another angle. "Where am I, exactly?"

"Eladee."

John pulled his attention off the path ahead and looked at her. She was definitely nervous, and the abrupt one-word answers weren't the only signs. "What's wrong?" he confronted; the elusive lighter mood he'd experienced was already fading in light of her behavior.

She twisted the leather straps, and added a forced smile on her face. "Nothings wrong," she insisted.

John continued to stare at her. Something was bothering her, but he guessed he couldn't make her admit to anything if she didn't want to. He finally turned his attention back on the road, and realized they were nearing the outskirts of what must be their city, this Eladee. "We're here."

She nodded, and chirruped louder to the team, and they increased their pace. As they slid down the main street, John was aware of the stares focusing on him, and he hunched lower into his coat, trying to avoid the looks. Marie pulled up to a building that was taller than the others he'd seen, and she hopped down. A middle aged man appeared, "Mornin' Marie," he said, and he looked pointedly at John. "A bit early for him to be about, don't you think?"

"I'm fine," said John. Was everyone that bored that his health was the talk of the town?

Marie gave the man an exuberant hug. "I told him that, more than once, but he's stubborn, Ada…more stubborn than…" she drifted off into a painful silence.

Ada, if that was his name, or title, covered for her by taking the reins. "You go on in, Marie. No sense in exposing him more than necessary." He addressed John, "Mister, you take it easy, no need to push hard and fall sick, you hear." And with a kind smile, Ada guided the team towards the rear of the building.

John scratched a hand against the base of his hairline, where the hat was rubbing, and it itched. He looked at the man as he walked away, then realized Marie was already leading the way into a door that was up on a porch, and the sign read Hospital. This was it. He swallowed down a lump of nervousness, and followed her.

The building was warm, and he was led into a foyer where there were racks to hang their jackets. Marie took his things, and he was getting annoyed at always seeming to be slower at everything. He handed them over without complaint, but vowed he'd be first dressed in the outergarments when they were leaving, and nobody was going to wait on him like a valet again.

Just as he was shaking off the clinging slush from his shoes, a man in a white coat walked in. John knew this was one of the doctors. "Nice to see you up, John," greeted the man. "My name is Doctor Yarrow. I met you before, but I doubt you remember. How are you feeling?"

"I don't remember," replied John. "I don't remember anything. Was I here, before?"

Doctor Yarrow had a chart in his hand, and he tucked it against his chest. "You were," he answered evenly. "But you weren't aware of much at the time."

John felt like a bacterium under a microscope, aware that the Doctor was scrutinizing him intensely. "I gathered that." He didn't know what else to say. He couldn't remember this man, the building…none of it, and he didn't even know where to start with the questions.

Yarrow touched Marie on her elbow, a gentle touch, showing more of how the townspeople seemed very concerned for one another. "Marie, why don't you take John to room three, we'll talk more there. I've got to check in on Robert, but I'll be there shortly."

"Thank you," Marie smiled warmly, returning his affection. "We'll be there."

The Doctor gave a short nod, and left the foyer. John waited for Marie to tell him what to do, knowing he had no other recourse at this time. He was fast growing tired of the helpless confused feeling, and he prayed again that the man in this building would be the key to his past.

Marie led him down a busy corridor. Nurses bustled about, and he could see what had to be other patients, based upon their state of dress and appearance, meandering back and forth. Marie came to a stop outside a door, and John looked up to see a painted black number three above the entrance. This would be it. He let out the lungful of air he'd been unconsciously holding, and walked in, stopping abruptly when all he saw was an empty bed. "Is he…"

Marie's face paled as she realized what he thought. "No, no…the doctor wanted to do a check-up on you first. I'm sorry, I didn't think to explain." She rushed to explain, and ease his fears.

He was abashed at how easily she read him. He struggled to gain control of his emotions, and still he felt like a mouse on a string, being toyed with by the cat. These people, these Eladeans, they seemed genuinely nice, but he kept feeling constantly off-kilter. "I don't want to wait, and I don't need a check-up," John argued, his voice low and controlled. He was fighting to hold it together.

Marie got up close, standing toe to toe with John, and gave him the angriest look he'd seen yet, which was enough to surprise him, but then she spoke. "You listen to me, John Sheppard, _we_ rescued _you_, and we've been fighting to keep you, and your friend, alive!" He saw her take a steadying breath. "I realize," she continued more calmly, "That you are upset, and worried, and even though you won't admit it, your body is not as strong as you are used to, and you don't have the memories of the accident to account for it's condition. But, you need to trust me, and trust the doctors. We are only trying to help you."

He lifted a weary hand, and rubbed it through his hair, and down his neck, trying to scrub away the growing tension. He was beginning to feel the weakness nibbling at his mind, and simple thoughts were becoming difficult, and this bothered him, a lot. He didn't want to be here, yet he wanted answers. He was becoming confused again, and he was afraid he was going to lose what little he'd managed to glean from them. "I just want to remember," he told her.

"I know," she said. She guided him to the table, and taking his arm with little effort on her part, he complied. "Sit, before you fall down. Once Doctor Yarrow checks you, you can see your friend, I promise."

He sat, and then he wondered at what she'd said. "You called me John Sheppard, is that my last name? Sheppard?"

She pulled a chair closer, and he watched as she settled in, crossing her legs. Marie seemed flustered by his question, and he wondered if she had given away more than what she wanted to, but why would she try to hide his last name from him?

"It is, you mumbled it in your sleep after we got you to the hospital. We tried to ask you your name, and you kept saying John Sheppard and a bunch of numbers, over and over again."

He mulled the new information but it didn't ring a bell. Why would he repeat a bunch of numbers with his name? "You said I arrived with the others from my world, what happened to everyone? The bodies of those that didn't live?" It felt morbid to discuss people that probably meant something to him, but now he was detached, as if he were discussing an item of clothing. It didn't mean anything. He was hoping maybe there would be something on them that would help.

Marie didn't look any happier than before. "I'm sorry, they burned with the ship. We couldn't save them."

A knock at the door distracted him from further thought, and Doctor Yarrow entered not far behind his knock. "I see you're ready for me," he said kindly. He strode over to John's side, and set another chart behind him, on the exam table. Yarrow was an older gentleman, older than Ada, but he seemed to be capable and he didn't give John the willies.

"I suppose," answered John.

The Doctor picked up an instrument and started fumbling with John's sleeve. "I'm just checking your heart, son," he supplied at John's inquiring look. John wanted to say there was nothing wrong with his heart, it was his head that needed examining, but then again, Doctor Yarrow probably already knew that.

It didn't take the doctor long to finish the exam, but he was frowning when he was done. "I don't like what I see." Yarrow picked up the chart and scribbled some notes. John idly wondered if his writing would be as indecipherable as other doctors he knew, and he had no way of knowing what knowledge prompted that thought. Yarrow continued, "I'm going to prescribe some medicine, and you need to take it twice a day, no buts, you hear?"

"What's it for?" asked John. He felt weird at the thought of taking medicine from someone he didn't even know. Marie had said to trust her, and trust the doctors, but she was asking for a lot more than he felt he could give.

"The headaches, weakness, general malaise," Yarrow said. At John's startled look he explained further, "John, it doesn't take a doctor to see you are suffering. Take the pills, they'll help."

John wondered what choice he had. He supposed he could say no, but he could be turning down an opportunity to get better, and right now he needed all the help he could get at clearing his muddled mind. The growing headache was making it hard to stay focused. "Fine," he assented. He'd try it, at least once, and if it didn't help, or if he thought it was doing something it shouldn't, he'd stop taking them. He doubted they were going to try and kill him after all they had done so far.

Yarrow smiled broadly. "That's a good man. I'll send a nurse in with a bottle; take two now, and two tonight. Continue twice a day as needed."

The doctor started leaving. "Doc?" The name came naturally to him, though he didn't know why. "Can I see the other…guy?" he asked.

Yarrow was holding on to the open door, and he didn't seem thrilled at the idea, but he nodded. Before leaving, he added, "Take the medicine first, then you see him. And John?"

"What?"

Yarrow let out a tired sigh, and he seemed saddened by something. "Don't be surprised if seeing him doesn't help. These head injuries can be very difficult, and unpredictable."

John didn't want to believe that would be the outcome, but he answered how he knew they wanted. "I understand."

The doctor had only been gone for a few minutes, not even long enough for John to think of more questions to ask Marie, when a nurse came in holding a tray with two cups. "Here you are, John." She handed him the cup with two large pills and John wondered how he was going to swallow them. He tossed one in his mouth, and swigged a big gulp of water. It barely went down, and he gagged for a moment.

"Don't these come in a smaller size?" he asked when he could breathe again.

Marie's eyes were crinkled with laughter, and she said, "Everyone complains, and still they stay the same size." At John's surprised look, she explained further, "These are a personal concoction of Doctor Yarrow's, a miracle drug, there isn't a body in Eladee who hasn't been forced to take them at one time or another."

She was smiling, but he didn't find it funny. He quickly swallowed the other pill, before handing the empty cup of water back to the nurse, and gave another cough. He hoped the ones that got sent home could be cut in half because he wasn't eager to repeat that, even if it wouldn't be till nighttime.

"If you follow me, I'll take you to see the gentleman you are waiting to see." The nurse told him as she handed him the bottle with the other pills. He pocketed them, and realized that finally, he'd have a chance to learn something new from the only person that could help him.

She led them back into the corridor, and they went down the opposite way they'd initially come, and took a right, before coming to a set of wooden double doors. They had words painted in white saying, _No Unauthorized Admittance, _but she pushed through them, holding one open for them to follow.

She stopped at a desk, and mumbled something to another nurse, and then directed John to a row of beds along the wall to the right. He realized it was one big open room. This must be where the critically ill patients were kept. There was a curtain pulled, and he followed her, his mind going numb. He was suddenly taken by an overwhelming urge to stop, and leave. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he fought to control his breathing.

"John?"

Marie was ahead of him, and waiting. He'd stopped, and hadn't realized it. He closed his eyes, and fought against a growing sick feeling. He opened his eyes. She was watching him, and looked ready to call for help. "I'm coming," he asserted, for whom, he wasn't sure, but if he were a gambling man, he would bet it was for him.

He forced his feet to carry him forward, and Marie was pulling back the curtain. He hadn't been prepared for what he saw, regardless of how many times he'd thought about this moment. It was a man. He had brown hair, a little thin on top, and a jutting chin. He had a wide bandage wrapped around his head, and his arms and hands were encased in thick gauze. His nose was reddened and the skin was peeling back. It almost looked like his eyebrows were burnt off. He stared, wishing, praying for something, but there wasn't anything. No spark of recognition, no feeling of remembrance or sorrow for this man.

He stared, feeling deadened by the drop of emotions. Marie was by his side, and guided him to a chair. "I know it's a shock, but Doctor Manly will be in shortly to tell you how he's doing." She paused, and cocked her head, just a little, to watch him as he kept watching the figure in the bed. "Do you recognize him?"

John shook his head. Before he could reply, an image, of that man standing next to a console, and repeating, _using power, using power_, and then it was gone.

"John?"

"No," he replied. "I don't know who this is."

She knelt by his side, and took his limp hand in hers, and grabbed his chin, forcing him to make eye contact. "John, look at me." When he did, she continued. "It'll be okay, I promise. You'll remember. You have to give it time."

He found himself drowning in her eyes. Marie was becoming his lifeline, the man lying in the bed couldn't be there for him, and he had to hold on to someone, or he'd drown in his fear. How could a person lose who they were, and go on? Would he act the same even if he lacked the memories of who he was? What if he never remembered? What if he never got the answers he was so desperate for? There was something…something that was demanding he pay attention, and he was afraid it'd be too late before he could remember what it was.

"I'm trying," he whispered brokenly. He wanted to reach for the man's hand, an impulse that came without reason, but the man's hands were thickly bandaged, and he couldn't do more than touch his shoulder. A flare of pain, and he closed his eyes. He was being dragged, and it was hot. The man was panting, and cursing at him. _Don't you die on me, Major! I didn't risk permanent scars for you to die on me…_

"What is it?" the soft voice intruded.

He opened his eyes. He didn't know. "Nothing," he said.

He could see she didn't believe him, but she didn't press. He heard the sounds of people talking in the distance, and he wanted to be alone. "Could I have a minute?"

She looked at him, and he thought she was seeing into his mind, and reading his muddled thoughts. "Okay," she finally agreed. "But if you need anything, I'll be at the nurse's desk."

He nodded, not trusting his voice to answer her. She left, and pulled the curtain around the bed, leaving him in privacy. He inched the chair closer to the bed, and looked down dispassionately at the figure. "I should know you," said John. "We almost died together, and that should mean something, but I don't recognize you…I don't recognize myself."

The figure didn't move. The closed eyes, moist by medication they'd applied, he guessed, didn't blink. John reached out and touched a part of the man's head that wasn't swathed in white. "Don't you die on _me_. Don't you leave me here with no way of finding out who I am, you understand!" he whispered fiercely. Again, the man showed no sign of awareness at his words, or his presence. John slumped in the chair, and let his face fall into his hands. He was tired. He was so very damn tired.


	3. Part Three

**AN: I have a lot I want to say, but my computer is wavering on shaky legs, so I'm going to settle for thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think about the story! I appreciate all the feedback and input, you guys are great! **

**Later that day…**

John was drifting. He'd sat in the chair next to the man's bedside, and refused to leave. He didn't know why he wanted to stay. He didn't know why it was important to just sit by this person, even though he wasn't awake. Marie had come and prodded him to return to the house with her a few times, but each time she'd retreated when he barely acknowledged her presence, leaving him alone. The longer he sat, the worse he felt. He was beginning to feel dizzy, and lightheaded. He wanted to lay down, but he didn't want to leave. Why was he so reluctant to go when he couldn't remember anything about this man?

He heard voices approaching. The first one speaking was Doctor Manly. He'd met him earlier, not long after he'd pulled up a chair and sat, watching, and doing nothing else. He'd explained to John that his companion, he assumed, his _friend_, had suffered from burns, that while not severe, presented a complication of dehydration because of the sheer area of the man's upper body that they affected. As always, with burns, there existed the possibility of infection. He had also suffered a head injury, though the doctor had explained that it was a superficial injury that had bled a lot, but the damage was mostly external, whereas with John, his was internal, and that's why John couldn't remember anything. He'd also explained that the next few days were critical. If he responded to treatment, he'd probably live. If he didn't…there was nothing more they could do.

The next voice he recognized was Yarrow. He was discussing this man's treatment, and as they approached he picked out words related to his medical care. How much medication he should have, and John picked out that they were keeping this guy sedated. _For his own good_…but John didn't like hearing that. He wanted him awake, why hadn't they told him that the man was sedated? He filed it away to ask later.

The curtain was pulled back, and he was surprised to see Marie was with the two doctors, and the worried expression was back. Yarrow approached his chair, and regarded him patiently. "John, Marie tells me you won't leave."

John thought of a dozen excuses to say, but he didn't. He stared back at the doctor, daring him to say he had to leave.

Yarrow sensed his mood, and waved the others away, pulling up a chair next to John. Manly and Marie excused themselves, leaving Yarrow alone with him. "This isn't going to help."

"It might," John said through tight lips.

Yarrow sat down, and regarded John with more patience then John thought he deserved. "Do you want to talk?"

Now that was funny. He didn't know who he was, he couldn't remember his name, the only person who could help was in danger of dying, and did he want to talk? "That's a stupid question," John said, he knew it wasn't polite, but his impulse was to tell it like it is, and having no memory, he was reduced to his impulses. "I don't know anything, so how would I know what to talk about? How's the weather…oh wait, I don't even know what the weather should be like." He paused for a minute, and a question did come to mind, one that had been bothering him from the beginning. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Yarrow asked, and he was watching John with that concerned look that was starting to wear on his nerves. Everyone was staring at him just like that, and he was getting tired of feeling like a delicate flower that everyone expected to wilt at any moment.

"That…" explained John with the wave of his hand, "caring. You don't know me from Adam, yet you save me and my friend, take us in, and go out of your way to help…why?" He wondered why it seemed wrong to him. He wondered what kind of world he was from, if that basic level of humanity wasn't expected.

He guessed Yarrow was thinking along the same lines because he seemed bothered by John's question. "You were hurt. What else could we do, leave you there to die?" he responded sharply.

A wave of dizziness assailed his senses, and he felt the disorientation that heralded another vision. The man in the bandages was leaning over him, slapping his face, and holding something against his head…pressing, and it hurt. _Major, you son of a bitch, wake up! We're in trouble, and even my IQ isn't going to solve this! _ He pulled his hand back from John's head, and it was stained crimson. The man stared at his hand, mesmerized by the sight. _Oh, God, Sheppard, _the man said, horrified by what he saw

John's hand flew to the back of his head as the memory ended, and he was stunned to feel the thick metal under his fingers, _staples_. Only a few, but still, he hadn't realized he was missing a chunk of hair, and skin, on the back of his head. "Wha…?"

Yarrow was staring at him intently, and John didn't like the calculating look. "You remembered something," he stated.

Why hadn't he remembered before? He'd almost died, and he didn't remember having his head split open? "I…" he stumbled for words but he didn't find them, and another bout of lightheadedness rolled across his body, causing him to waver in the chair.

"Enough, John. You need to rest." Yarrow stood, and John could see through blurring vision that he was waving the others over to him. The next few moments were hazy, but despite his earlier resolution to not be waited on, he was helped into his jacket, and hat. He felt himself guided to the waiting sleigh, and was helped up by the man he'd met earlier, Ada, he remembered, Ada was his name, and he slid into the seat beside him while Marie sat on his other side. He felt the cold from the bench seep through the fabric of his pants, and he shivered. The last thing he would remember was the horses jumping forward, eager to be off again, and the sleigh slipping forward in the snow.

The next day passed in a blur of hazy dreams. He saw the forest, and a fire; there was a fire…and the man…the man that was always cursing him to not die. He saw a city, it was a glorious city, tall spires rising into the sky, but the faces of the people in that city had no names, and each time he tried to hold onto a memory, it'd disappear into darkness. He tossed, and turned, restless in his bed, and he tried to wake from whatever was keeping him down.

Finally, he shrugged off the slumber, and looked around the room. He saw light filtering through the window and wondered how long he'd been sleeping. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, and he reached for it, leaning on his elbow, feeling the mattress bow under his weight. It was lukewarm, but eased his dried lips and parched throat. He became aware of a heaviness draped over his body…blankets, and realized someone had undressed him, again.

The door creaked, and Marie peeked in, smiling when she saw him in the half-upright position. "You're awake!" she exclaimed. She pushed the door open the remaining way, and rushed in. "You had us worried!"

He didn't know how long he'd slept, senseless to the passage of time, but judging from her actions, it had to have been more than a few hours. "How long?" he rasped, surprised at his voice. He took another drink, trying to ease the discomfort.

Marie hesitated, and John worried. "How long, Marie?" he pressed, knowing now that it was more than hours, maybe more than a day.

"Three days, John. You've been in and out. Doctor Yarrow came to see you yesterday. We were worried you weren't going to make it." Marie seemed truly shaken. She settled on the end of his bed, and he felt it dip under her weight. Her face was pinched, and white, and he felt sorry for putting her through this. She wasn't his mother, or his wife…she was a stranger, and yet…she was obviously drawn to him, and cared.

"Days?" he repeated. "Why?"

"Doctor Yarrow said you overdid it. There's damage inside your head, and he can't fix it," she caught his eyes, and held them with her own, and he saw in her a fear for him. "John, he says you must stay calm, or you won't heal, and you will die."

He didn't feel damaged in his head. Another flash sparked inside, and somehow he knew the man he'd seen lying in that hospital bed would find it funny, and say he always knew John was brain damaged. He could almost see him physically saying those words. If it'd been days… "The man, is he…?"

"He's better," she said, and she was smiling broadly. "He asked for you."

"He's awake?" he asked hopefully. He felt a thrill of regret that he hadn't been there when the man had woken. He should've been there, but he didn't know why he felt that way. He just did.

"He woke up yesterday, briefly, and he wanted to know where you were," she said. "Of course we had to tell him you were resting, and he wasn't too happy about that…"

"I bet," joked John, and he realized there were memories there of this man regarding his behavior that were under the surface, even if he wasn't consciously aware of them. "When can I see him?"

The joy dropped from Marie's face like a ten-pound weight. "John, you can't go, you aren't well enough. _He's_ not well enough." John felt like she'd slapped him. She was fiddling with a loose thread on the edge of the blanket and he wanted to snap at her to stop. She was doing it out of nervous energy, and it was distracting

"You can't be serious…he knows me! I _need_ him, Marie. I need to remember." John was beginning to get angry, and he felt trapped. He woke to find he'd been out for days, and the man… "What's his name?" he asked, as it suddenly occurred to him that he could quit referring to him as _the man_.

Marie was climbing off his bed, and John was afraid she'd walk out that door, without giving him anything. But she didn't leave, she hesitated at the foot of his bed, and there was pity on her face. "Rodney. He said his name is Rodney."

Rodney…he tried it out silently in his mind, but he had nothing. There weren't any ripples flowing through like a pebble dropped in a pond, and there wasn't any flash of insight brought on by the knowledge of the man's name. "Nothing," he muttered. At her inquiring look, he explained, "It doesn't make me remember anything."

Marie was standing still, and she was behaving as if she wanted to say more, to do more; there was a hint of action about to happen, but she wasn't sure how, or what to do, or say, so she did nothing. "John, I know…" she started, but broke off. He saw her eyes, and they looked glassy and wet, like she was on the verge of crying. She wiped an impatient hand against one of them, confirming what he suspected. She gave up standing at a distance, and came back to his side, kneeling close to his bed, her dress billowed around her legs, and she had her chest perilously close to his. He didn't pull back. "I wish I could take your pain, and confusion. I wish I could give you your friend right now, but I can't," she was brimming with pain, and it was an emotional hurt that he didn't understand. Where was it coming from?

"Why do you care so much?" whispered John, reaching up, and brushing away a tear that had broken free, as it slid down her cheek. He couldn't force himself to be loud, or confrontational, because she was too close, and she was so alive, breathing and feeling, and she was so very sad. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't the cause of all that sadness.

She turned her face into his hand, and covered it with her own, closing her eyes, and he felt her, smelled her, and for a moment he felt time stop. Everything was heightened, his awareness of touch and sound. A heartbeat was a drumbeat. He was drawn to this woman. Her vulnerability, her love for him…love…he didn't even know her, yet he knew she loved him. Why? Why should she care, _love_, so much, when he knew so little?

"Because you're you," she answered huskily. She opened her eyes, and he was caught again. "Rest." She took his hand off her face, and laid it on the covers of the bed, her own hand lingering for a moment, reluctant to give up the brief contact. "Rest, and soon you'll see your friend."

John found his eyes closing without his permission. He thought he felt a soft kiss on his forehead, but he was already losing awareness to the hazy dreams. He was losing himself, or maybe he was already lost, and he was beginning to wonder if it even mattered.

**Atlantis…**

A knock on Elizabeth's door caused her to look up from the report she was studying. Unexpectedly, she saw Doctor Kate Heightmeyer watching her. "May I come in?" she asked.

Elizabeth nodded, giving the woman permission, no matter that it was offered grudgingly. "What can I do for you?" she asked, after Kate had settled into the seat in front of her desk. She could probably guess what this visit was about.

Watching Elizabeth's closed face, Kate knew this wasn't going to be easy. "I'm worried about you," she admitted. Being a psychologist, she knew sometimes the direct approach was the best approach, and with Elizabeth, it was the only approach.

"I'm fine," Weir said. There wasn't any need to pretend she didn't know what this was about. It'd been over a week since her two right hands had been lost in a fiery crash on some distant planet. Over a week since she'd last seen the boyish grin, and the cocky smug smile…over a week since she'd enjoyed their easy bantering at the briefing table.

Kate didn't agree, she knew better. Elizabeth was anything but fine. So, Kate used her training from everything to the tone of her voice, to her position. She had her hands clasped loosely together on her lap, and her legs crossed. It was a position that said, _I'm approachable, I'm here to help_…but Weir wasn't buying it. "With all due respect, Doctor, I disagree."

Elizabeth found a paper to study, sending a message of unavailability. "You're entitled to disagree, but the fact remains."

Kate decided to try a different technique. "If a member of your expedition was withdrawing from those around them, if this same member was working longer days, and sleeping less…if others were mentioning to you about this person's general decline…what would you tell me to do?" She turned the tables on the negotiator. Put her in the psychologist's shoes, and placed the burden of knowledge with her.

Elizabeth stared, stone-faced, and Kate wondered if she'd break through, when suddenly the woman's face crumpled with grief, and Elizabeth dropped into the back of her chair, raising a shaking hand to her face. "I see them, Kate," her voice trembled. "I see them in my dreams, I see them when I'm walking down the hall…and each time I think maybe their death was only a nightmare, and they're really here, and I want that to be the truth, so very much." Elizabeth's voice broke, and Kate hurt to see the woman struggling for control. "I keep expecting to hear them calling me on the radio, or walking in my office," finished Weir, and the pain was so strong that Kate felt a lump in her throat. She wasn't isolated from the emotional upheaval. She couldn't keep a clinical detachment. The very nature of this expedition denied her that advantage.

Kate hadn't expected Elizabeth to open up so suddenly, and she realized she'd underestimated the emotional upheaval being experienced. They'd lost personnel before, but with the exception of Sumner, who was lost early into the mission, they'd never lost someone so prominent in the daily running of the expedition, and to lose two - two men so close to Doctor Weir, it was eating her up, as everyone had told Kate, in confidence, as Kate had walked the halls trying to offer support to anyone in need. "Sudden death has that affect, Elizabeth, it's nothing to be ashamed of." Kate explained gently. "Many people who have lost loved ones without warning experience similar feelings."

Elizabeth wanted to refute Kate's statement. She wasn't other people; she was Elizabeth Weir, an accomplished woman who wasn't prone to wallowing in her emotions. She was learning to make life and death decisions in a way she'd never thought she'd have to, but this was different. She couldn't accept their death. They didn't feel _gone_. "What if they didn't die?" she voiced her feelings.

"Don't," Kate said. "If you allow yourself to believe a fantasy, it'll only prolong the grieving process."

"But what if it's true?" pressed Elizabeth. "What if Ford missed them. What if we left them, out there, on that mountain, and they are waiting for help?"

Kate's next words chilled her to the bone. "If that were true, then it's already too late. They couldn't survive those conditions without help."

Elizabeth realized she still held a pen in her right hand. She set it down on the desk with measured calm that she didn't feel. "I thought you were here to help," she said. The idea that they may have left them to die of exposure on a mountainside chilled her already cold soul. Why did this have to hurt so much?

"Doctor…Elizabeth," Kate leaned forward, "I said that because the Lieutenant didn't miss finding them. They burned to death, and the thought of that is so painful that you would wish almost any other fate upon them." She stopped, and waited for her words to sink in. "I understand that you were close. I know that this is hard to accept, especially so because you have no bodies to bury, but the memorial service is tomorrow. You need to attend, and put this behind you. _We_ need _you_, and you know Major Sheppard would tell you the same thing."

Weir didn't reply, but she didn't deny Kate's words, and that was more than Kate had hoped for at this point. She waited, giving Weir time to say more, but Elizabeth didn't take up the offer her silence provided. Kate stood, and placed her hands on the desk, again forcing Weir's attention onto her, whether she wanted to or not. "I know this is trite, but it's true. This will pass. The pain and grief, it'll get better…but you've got to take care of yourself before you can get past this." She saw that Elizabeth heard her. She continued, "Get some sleep, okay?"

Elizabeth nodded, still emotional and not wanting to talk further. Kate waited again, for a beat of time, a tick of a second, and left, letting Weir turn over in her mind their conversation. She knew the woman in that office had the strength to get past this, but she also knew it would take time, and maybe more than a few talks. That's what she was here for. She would talk however much Elizabeth needed…and just maybe, those talks would help her, also.

**Back on M4X–578…**

_Major, you're bleeding everywhere…it won't stop_, the man he now knew as Rodney was hanging over him, fallen to his knees on the icy wet ground beside John, and he felt so cold. Rodney was angry, he could tell, by the look on his face, and John wondered if he'd ever seen him so angry. _You've got no right to die and leave me here _- _without your help, I'm dead meat…you hear me!_ The man was railing at him, and John knew it was only because Rodney was afraid. He smelled something burning in the distance, and he felt his head roll, only to watch the flames eat away at his ship.

John bolted upright in bed, _a ship_! He remembered there was a ship, and it burned. Why was it burning? They crashed…but why? As the dream faded, he realized it was dark in his room. The moonlight cast shadows on the bed, eerie long shadows from the branch outside the window. He was breathing hard, and his head ached, again. He raised his hand carefully, and fingered the staples. They felt ugly, and he was thankful he couldn't see what it looked like.

The irony of his flashback wasn't lost on him. Rodney had been afraid of John dying, and leaving him alone in this place. Now, John worried that Rodney might die, and leave him, without his memories. He forced himself to settle back, lying on the bed, and keeping his head to the side to alleviate pressure on his healing wound.

Before he'd gotten comfortable, he was lost again, but this time he was soaring in the sky. The ship responded to his simplest thoughts, a perfect synergy with his mind, and desires. _Sir, the mountain is ahead_, a nameless voice informed him from somewhere behind. He saw barren treetops, and a snowy terrain far below, and it was so far he wondered how anyone had survived a crash. He heard someone shout, and in his mind, his body turned, and he saw Rodney, panicked and pointing out the window. _Major, oh my god, we're being shot at! _ He felt himself turn slowly back to the front, and there were bullets of white coming at them, and before he could act, the ship rocked with the impact, one after another, and he knew with sickening clarity, they were all going to die.

He tossed in bed, and rolled to his other side, feeling the springs against every pressure point on his body. The memories that were surfacing weren't good ones. They'd been shot down. Who was to blame? Was it the Eladeans? The very people who now nursed him back to health, and Rodney? Where was the motive in that? Or, as Rodney would say, where was the logic?

One thing that John was certain of, was that tomorrow he'd insist Marie take him to see Rodney, and this time he wouldn't leave until he spoke to him, regardless if he had to sleep in that chair, or pass out on the floor. John didn't want to close his eyes. He was torn by the desire to know more, but he didn't want to relive those moments again. He forced himself to relax.

The memories took over again. He was sitting in the pilot's chair. He felt the hard surface pushing against his back, and his legs. The ship was shaking, and bucking from the damage. _Sir_, a young man called him, and he looked back. That man knew they were going to die. He could see the acceptance in those deep brown eyes, and they said everything else. John had only jerked his head, a small nod to say he understood, and that the sentiments were returned. He didn't offer false platitudes. Rodney wasn't as gracious as the other man. _We are not going to die, you hear me! This ship was made to take a beating, so knock it off! _Rodney was fighting against the rough movements as they lost altitude, and John thought he was also fighting against the mortal coils of death that were trying to reach up and gather them downward. Somehow he knew that Rodney wouldn't ever accept dying with fatalistic resentment. No, that man would go out with a fight, scratching and clawing, to hang on to even that last millisecond.

The ship hit with a thunderous screeching, and he felt it catapult over, nose and then tail, and how many times it flipped before it stopped, he didn't know. He couldn't breathe, or think, and it was the end. He felt his world going dim, and gray. _I'm sorry_, he whispered. He reached a hand out, grabbing a fistful of blanket, to reassure himself that he was here, in this bed, and not there, in that crash, lying broken and dying. The fabric was smooth, and warm. He realized his jaw was clenched tight, and his entire body was flexed, in a flight or fight preparation, brought about by the flashback. He purposefully relaxed his muscles and wished for a dreamless sleep to end the night. Hadn't he seen enough for now? For someone who wanted to remember, he found himself wanting to forget, just for a little while. Whether God, or exhaustion, heard him, his body relaxed and he fell asleep. And he wasn't bothered by dreams, or memories.

**The Day After, on M4X-578…**

John was sitting in the sleigh. Marie was guiding the horses, although he knew she was pretending it took more of her attention than it really did. She was angry with him, and he supposed she had a right. When morning had arrived, he'd been out of bed before the last traces of dusk were gone. He wanted to see Rodney, and he'd told Marie if she didn't take him, then he'd walk. He'd bargained that she cared enough to not let him risk the strain that would put on his healing head, and he'd been right.

She'd agreed, but had spent the remaining time fixing him breakfast, and not saying a word. The silent treatment was effective, and as the trip had progressed, his guilt had increased. The guilt wasn't enough to make him retreat, however; he was focused on one mission, and that was to speak to this Rodney.

The flashbacks from last night had left him with more questions than answers, and the questions were bothersome. Who had been that young man in the ship? He'd died, according to Marie. John felt he was doing him a disservice by forgetting his name. And who was behind their ship going down? What weapon, and why? Why did someone shoot them out of the sky? He didn't remember if they were here to fight someone. He hadn't felt any violence in his mind during the initial flight. It was the opposite. In the first memory, when he was flying, he'd felt a sense of peace and contentment. Everything had been going like it should.

And now, his world was gone. He had fragments, and they only left him more unsettled. The silence grew between him and Marie, and finally it bothered him to the point of being the first to concede. "I've got to talk to him," he explained.

"Did you take your medicine this morning?" asked Marie, not acknowledging the topic he tried to discuss with her.

"Marie," exasperated, John grabbed her hand that held the reins. "Don't change the subject."

She pulled her hand back. "What's there to talk about? You wanted to see him, despite the danger to your health, and I'm taking you." She clucked at Darling to quit drifting to the right. "Did you take your pills?" She wasn't going to be deterred, but John knew two could play that game.

"Yes, I did, now would you stop pouting?"

She looked like he'd dumped a bucket of cold water over her head. Her mouth opened, and shut, and opened, and still she didn't say anything. John sat back and smiled. If anything, he gave her something else to be annoyed at, and that was something.

She was quiet, and had gone back to staring at the road ahead, when finally she spoke stiffly. "I don't pout."

"Fine, sulk, then."

"John Sheppard, you are insufferable," she snapped. "You won't listen, you won't take no for an answer…ever since you showed up my life has been turned inside out!"

John was startled by her outburst, but her face was comical. He didn't know who it was, but she reminded him of someone else, someone with curly brown hair, and an inner strength that caused him constant frustration. "I didn't ask to show up," he reminded her.

Marie's smile fell, and though she didn't seem angry, she wasn't happy. "No, I don't suppose you did," she said, and her voice was resigned. He kept expecting her to say more, but she clammed up, and he didn't feel like forcing conversation now that he'd managed to get her over her earlier snit.

The rest of the trip was made in silence, and when they arrived at the hospital, Ada was there, again, to take the team from Marie. He smiled at John, but this time it seemed tempered by frustration on Ada's part. He supposed the news that he was being difficult was going around. Small towns like this, there wouldn't be much in the way of secrets.

He got down, and before Marie could beat him to it, he walked in, and slipped out of his coat, and hat, hanging them up with a satisfied feeling. It wasn't much, but it was the start of regaining his independence. He felt deflated when Marie shucked her own coat, and hung it up, looking for all the world like he'd taken her favorite dessert, or something. He knew she enjoyed looking after him. She was lonely, and he'd given her someone to watch after…someone to care for. But he was tired of being taken care of. It wasn't his nature to sit back, and let others do for him.

He grabbed her arm. "I'm sorry," he said, again. He was getting tired of apologizing.

"Sorry for what?"

"For being so stubborn. For being a pain." He didn't know what to say. "Marie, I am who I am. Personalities don't change because you can't remember your name."

She leaned into the cushioned coat of hers that was hanging on the rack, and she slipped her hands across her chest, seeming to cherish this moment for what it was. "You don't have to apologize."

"I don't know why you care so much," remarked John. "I don't even know you." After he said it, the memory of the hushed conversation they'd had in his room the night before came back to him. He'd forgotten it. Lost in the fugue of the flashbacks, it had faded into obscurity in a corner of his mind.

He heard Marie sigh; she didn't like the turn the conversation was taking. Maybe she remembered they'd been there once before, and maybe she regretted saying so much. Whatever it was, she straightened, and now she took John's arm, and steered him into the hall. As John walked, she opened up a little about what she was thinking. "I may not have known you for very long, but I do feel like I know you. I feel like I've known you all my life."

John was startled by her words. He knew Marie was drawn to him, and he had felt a connection to her, but he wondered how much was her, and how much was the brown haired woman in his dreams, the one that smiled, and frowned, and worried over him. He stumbled, as a strong memory assailed his senses. _That wasn't really what you were going to say, was it? _The woman with the short, brown hair has asked him, and she was smiling kindly. He'd told her he had no idea what she was talking about, and she'd given him a knowing look and said, _I didn't think so_.

He covered his misstep, and Marie didn't seem overly concerned. She led him to the double doors, and with a sense of déjà vu, she led him through, stopping at the nurse's desk. She told them John was there to see Rodney, and it caused him some trepidation to learn that Rodney was awake.

A nurse he'd seen before gave him a sympathetic smile. "He's in a lot of pain, so don't expect much."

John nodded numbly. He understood, but he hoped…he wanted more than they seemed to think Rodney could deliver. He walked, as if in a dream, hearing his own steps echoing in his mind, and Marie pulled back the curtain, letting him in.

Rodney's eyes were closed, but at the sound of the curtain being pulled back, those eyes shot open, and the man's face transformed from one of misery to utter joy. "Major!"

"Rodney," John said. He headed for the chair, and pulled it near the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Lousy," complained Rodney. "I don't know why we had to crash land on this planet of all places, they don't even have morphine."

Now that John was face to face with this man, he didn't know where to start. He sat in the chair, and stared, for too long apparently, because Rodney's eyes narrowed at him. "How are you doing? They told me you weren't so good yesterday…" Rodney's face scrunched, "or was that the day before?"

John felt another spike of pain, and he saw another day, and time play out in his mind. He was lying on his back, and his body burned with numbness. _You mean my day just got worse_, and he'd addressed the question to Rodney, and Rodney had been standing in front of some type of blue puddle.

"Major?"

He realized Rodney was staring at him. Everyone was always staring at him, ever since he'd woken up in Marie's house that first night. "I don't remember," he admitted softly.

"What, that it was yesterday, or the day before?"

John shook his head impatiently, wanting the man to get it, without him having to spell it out. Rodney blinked, and tried again, "How you're doing? You don't remember how you're doing?"

So much for not having to spell it out. "Everything, Rodney. I don't remember a thing from before I woke up in Marie's house."

"You remember my name," he said, obstinately refusing to believe what John was saying.

"No, I didn't, they told me!" exploded John. "It's all a jumble of mixed images."

Rodney wasn't panicking like John recalled him doing in his flashback during the crash. Instead, he appeared calm, but maybe it was the pain of his injuries causing him to remain subdued. "What's my last name?" he asked John.

John shook his head. He didn't know. He hadn't even known his own last name. Rodney finally let some of his worry seep into his features, and he swore. "It's McKay, Doctor Rodney McKay," he supplied.

McKay…it fit. That was good. John nodded, pleased by having a small piece of his missing mind back. "Doctor Rodney McKay," he repeated, just to hear it spoken out loud by his voice. He centered on McKay, and took in the strain around Rodney's eyes, and the white knuckles peeking out from where the bandages had slipped from him bending his hands. "You don't look so good, Doctor Rodney McKay," he observed, trying to lighten the mood while addressing his fear over Rodney's health.

That elicited a chuckle from the man on the bed. "It's your fault. My Grandmother could fly better than you."

"Your Grandmother wouldn't admit to being related to you," the retort had come out of John's mouth before he could give it a second thought. It felt right, to be talking like this with McKay, but he winced at the snipe all the same. He waited for Rodney to get angry with him, but he was surprised to see him grinning from the bed.

"Oh look, the brain damaged man made a joke," Rodney said, and John knew he wasn't being spiteful, though the wording was enough to make him do a double take, being so close to John's earlier thoughts. Regardless, the situation felt comforting, and normal. He saw the city in his dreams flash into life inside his mind, and he was standing next to Rodney, and John was smiling alongside a grinning McKay, who had something stuck to his chest that glowed green. _I shot him_, John said, and they'd found it funny. Rodney had bumbled his head about, inordinately pleased with himself, and sung out, _invulnerable,_ to another man, and the brown haired woman.

"Major?"

John fought off the images. He felt like a movie reel that'd been chopped up, and spliced back together, with all the scenes out of order. "I…" John tried to focus. "I keep getting these…flashes…of a city, and other people, and you," he admitted.

Rodney was losing his fight to stay awake, John could tell, because his eyes were drooping, and every now and then they'd jerk open in McKay's effort to stay with him. "You should rest," John said. "We can talk later."

He didn't want to risk McKay's health for his answers. He could wait. Rodney reached one of his bandaged hands out, trying to touch John. "Major, it'll be okay," he assured John, and his voice trembled with the fatigue and effort that John's visit had caused. "Just remember," Rodney coughed and forced his eyes to stay open for a little longer, and his gaze trailed behind John to where Marie was standing, and he lowered it to a level that only the two of them could hear, "you're not Captain Kirk."

John wondered what that meant. Who was Captain Kirk? It seemed important to Rodney, so he was going to ask him what he meant, but he saw that Rodney's eyes had closed, and they weren't going to be open again for a while. He hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees. It felt right to be here. It felt right to talk with Rodney, and for the first time, he didn't feel so alone.

end part three


	4. Part Four

** Later That Afternoon…**

_John was lying in a bed. His head hurt, worse than any headache he'd ever had in his entire life, and if it weren't for the pain, he'd have thought he was dead. He tried to move, but couldn't. It was only after a few moments that his sluggish mind processed he was strapped in the bed. A band went across his chest, and another was on his waist, with a third strap tight against his legs, just above the knee._

_He tried to resist the restricting bands, but the best he could do was manage to wiggle, the combination of the tight material and his weakened condition didn't allow him much progress. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't cooperate. The pain in his head kept him from being afraid. It kept him from almost all regular thought. He felt a hand touch his chest, and his heart responded, even if his mind didn't, leaping into action._

"John?"

His name. The person touching his chest called his name. The pain in his head began to fade, and he swam against the confusion that was muddling his thoughts.

"John!"

The voice was stronger, the hand on his chest was pushing harder. His own hand come up, and grabbed it. He grabbed it? Hadn't he been strapped down? His eyes flew open, and the disorientation caused him to stare blankly into Marie's face. He wasn't lying in a bed; he was sitting in a chair. He looked around, trying to recover his equilibrium. He was next to Rodney…in the hospital.

Marie was watching him, and she looked unsettled. "John?" she asked, trying to catch his gaze, but he was too busy looking around the room. Maybe there was a bed here, and he hadn't imagined it? It had seemed so real. It wasn't like the other flashbacks…this time he'd thought he was really there, and not just watching it play back in his mind. "Do you need me to get Doctor Yarrow?"

"No," answered John, too quickly. He sat up straighter in the chair, and this time he allowed his attention to linger on Marie. "I'm fine," he said with false confidence.

He could tell she wasn't convinced, but she let it go. "It's getting late, you need to rest." Marie tugged on his arm, telling him to get up with actions instead of words. He figured she knew he'd resist her verbal instructions so she'd decided to not give him a choice, and just started pulling on him in order to get him to act according to her wishes.

John's surprise must have registered on his face, because she stopped tugging for a moment to tell him, "It's been four hours. You fell asleep sitting up," she pointed at the still figure in the bed. "He's not going anywhere. You're visit tired him out."

Tired him out? He'd barely spoken to Rodney. McKay…Rodney McKay. He said it to himself because having that small amount of knowledge made him feel better. Made him feel not so insane. "I don't want to leave," John said. He didn't want to be somewhere else when Rodney woke up.

"You can't stay," protested Marie.

John wanted to say 'why not', but common sense prevailed. Something was wrong with his head. He was growing more aware of that with every day. The staples had fixed the outside, but whatever was wrong inside was still there. He wasn't a fearful person, but he felt like a time bomb, and the damage inside was ticking down to detonation, and when it went, he'd go with it. "Bring Rodney to the house," he said, as the idea formed.

He could tell Marie's initial reaction was to tell him no, to tell him he was being silly, but she must have read the desperation in what he didn't say. "The move will be hard on him," she said instead.

John didn't know if she was trying to play devil's advocate, or make him feel guilty hoping he'd opt to leave Rodney here, or maybe she was really considering what was best for Rodney. "It's hard on me, yet I've made it three times now," he refuted.

"You wanted to come," she argued. "Have you asked him if he wants to go through that pain, and take that risk with his health?" She tilted her head to the side, and frowned at him. He watched as the strands of hair slid over her shoulder with her movements. "John, he should make that decision, not you."

"Then I'll ask him."

Marie threw her hands up. "He's asleep!"

John's shoulder's slumped. He was tired, and the pounding in his head was growing. He exhaled slowly, trying to control the pain and fatigue instead of it controlling him. He hated to be a manipulative bastard, but at the same time, he knew he wasn't above that behavior. "You said you cared," he said flatly. He tried to put as little emotion as possible, knowing that would get to her more than anything else he could do.

He saw his words hit, and knew his instincts were still good, brain damage or not, because she physically winced. "I do," she protested.

"Then do this. Have him brought to the house," pressed John. A flare of pain, and another image played across the insides of his mind. He was standing on a balcony, and the brown haired woman was standing next to him, and she was angry. _It's the right thing to do, why? Because it is_. She was hurt by his words, but she didn't let it show. He lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead, just above his right eye.

When the pain had receded back to the previous level, he looked again at Marie, and he cringed inwardly when he found she was wearing a similar look as the woman in his vision. He'd hurt her, to get his way, but he'd do it again. He had to, and he felt that same need as he'd felt in the vision.

She let his arm drop, and he was surprised to realize she'd still had a grip on him. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay, John."

He exhaled. He could relax now. "Can we go now?" The day was catching up with him, and he didn't want to push so far that he wound up out of it for another three days, or worse, longer.

Despite what he'd done, she smiled kindly. "Yes, we can go now. I'll arrange for Rodney to be brought to the house."

He felt guilty. He always felt guilty. But he knew he'd do it again. "Good," he said. And he let her lead him to the coatroom, and even let her help him into his things. He could give her that without a fight. He tuned out the trip home, and he let her lead him into the house. He shrugged out of his clothes, with her help, and headed for his bed. He would nap, for a little while, and when he woke, Rodney would be here.

**The Next Day…**

"Psssst, Major!"

John turned restlessly in his sleep. He was looking at Rodney, sitting in a chair, with a man standing next to him, _McKay's okay_, _he…fainted_, he heard himself say, and he watched a small smile come over the face of the man in the white coat, as Rodney protested, _Oh yeah, that's very sympathetic, let's all mock the dying man_. He felt the humor of the moment, and grinned along with the other man.

"Major, I'm dying here," a voice persisted, outside his dream world.

He blinked, and his mind reeled back to the present. Who was dying? He struggled to separate the vision from reality. "What?" he asked the ceiling.

"Over here," an annoyed voice answered.

John let his head roll, and he was startled to see a small bed where the nightstand used to be, and lying in that bed was Rodney. He was pale, sweaty, and flushed all at the same time. Alarmed, John leaned up on his elbow, and stared, trying to process the gaps in his memory. "When did you get here?" he asked stupidly.

Rodney attempted a dirty look, but it was lost in a grimace of pain. "That's what I'd like to know. I went to sleep there…I woke up here."

John racked his mind. He had done it. He'd asked for Rodney to be moved. "I asked them to," he explained, as the conversation was reconstructed in his thoughts. "At least I think I did," he muttered. The line between the here and now, and the increasing flashbacks, was blurring.

Rodney grunted. "Good. This way I can keep an eye on you."

"On me?" Incredulous, John looked at him. "Give me a break, McKay, you can barely keep an eye open." The words flowed out of his mouth without conscious thought, and they startled him. He'd called Rodney McKay like it was as natural as the sun rising in the morning.

"Major, that sounded positively normal," observed McKay. "Besides, one of my eyes is better than the two of yours."

His mind was overtaken again, and he and Rodney were walking through a field of grass, and Rodney was talking to him. _You have no idea which way to go, do you? _John had defended himself, _Just trying to get my bearings, _he'd said. "Just trying to get my bearings," repeated John, in this time, to this Rodney.

"What?" Rodney asked sharply. He narrowed his eyes at John. "Would you quit doing that," he snapped.

John frowned back at Rodney. "Doing what?"

"That," Rodney said, and waved a bandaged hand in John's direction. "Acting like you're somewhere else. It's creeping me out."

A flash of light, and John shut his eyes against it, hearing McKay, but not seeing him this time…_it's that, or there are ghosts_…John opened his eyes, "There's no such thing as ghosts," he said, not even sure of where that piece of conversation had come from.

"This is not good," claimed Rodney. He let his hand fall back on the bed. "Where's Beckett when you need him?"

"Beckett?"

McKay let out a tired sigh. "Short loud man who hates to go through the gate, and makes Doctor McCoy look less neurotic."

"McCoy?" asked a puzzled John.

"Would you stop that?" snapped Rodney.

"Stop what?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Repeating everything I say."

John rubbed his hand against that same spot, right above his eye. "Then quit talking." His head was aching badly, and he could use some peace and quiet. Maybe bringing Rodney here wasn't such a good idea.

"I'd like to, but it's a nervous thing, you know," defended Rodney. "When I'm nervous, I talk. And right now, I'm really nervous, Major."

"Well don't be," John tried to assure him. He was still watching McKay, and the man looked like death warmed over. "How do you feel?"

Rodney snorted. "Like crap. I've got burns over most of my upper body. You could shoot me, and put me out of my misery. I won't sue you."

John grinned weakly. "There's a problem," he said.

"What?"

"No gun," explained John.

The creaking of the floor outside the bedroom door interrupted them. John waited, and was rewarded by it being pushed open, and he wasn't surprised to see Marie walk in with a tray. She brought it to the left side of the bed, where John realized the nightstand had been moved to. "You're up," Marie said, and he didn't know if she was talking to him, or to Rodney.

"Not willingly," grouched Rodney. "Don't you have anything better for the pain?"

Marie dipped a cloth in a basin full of water, and wrung it out. She was wearing a white apron around her waist, and John noticed her hair was mussed, and it looked like she'd been working too much. She took the cloth to McKay's side, and began wiping the exposed skin on his face, and Rodney didn't protest. "I'm sorry, these kinds of injuries are unheard of here," she told him, while she worked. "The doctor will be by to change your bandages shortly."

She went to get up, and John figured she was coming back for the water, so he saved her the trip, and lifted the basin to the other side of his bed, and held it on the edge so she could use it without spilling. She smiled gratefully, and dipped the cloth again, following the same process as before, but this time she began to wipe down an area on Rodney's shoulders that was exposed to air. The skin there was reddened, and peeling, but it didn't look worse than a bad sunburn. John wondered what the skin looked like underneath the bandages.

"What do you remember?" John asked Rodney, noticing how much pain he was in; he thought keeping Rodney talking would keep his mind off of the hurt, and focused on something else.

Rodney gasped as Marie hit a tender spot. "We crashed, I pulled you out, you died. Next thing I know, I woke up in that place they call a hospital, and when I asked to see your body, they told me you were resting."

"I died?" John repeated.

"I thought I told you to stop that," snapped McKay. "Obviously you didn't die, but I thought you had."

John laid back. His elbow was wobbly, but he kept a hand on the bowl to keep it steady for Marie. He was suddenly in another place. It was dark, and he was afraid. He felt something hard, and sharp, pressing into his back, and someone had a strangle hold on his throat. He fought to breathe, and looked up, and only in his nightmares could he have seen such a face. It was pasty, with ghoulish eyes, and long red hair, but he realized she wasn't what was holding him down. _How's the hand_, he'd asked, and he wondered how he managed to say it so calmly, when his insides were quivering. Then the pictures sped up, and he was standing inches from the ghoul, and he felt the weapon in his hand pierce the body in front of him. _That has to kill you_. It slid through the flesh like a hot knife through butter, and he felt the revulsion crawl up his throat. He gagged.

"Major!"

John realized he was on his back, and he rolled over to the side, and threw up, retching and choking for what felt like hours. It'd felt so real. He'd let go of the basin when he'd moved, and he felt the lukewarm water seeping through the sheets, and touching his back, and it reminded him of the hand around his throat; clammy, and cool. What was going on? He was losing his mind.

Marie was kneeling beside him, and she produced another rag, at least he hoped it was a different rag then the one she'd used on Rodney. She wiped his mouth, and eased him back. He felt the wet bedding against his back, and he wanted to move, but he was so tired, and leaning over the bed had made his head beat louder than he'd ever thought it could.

She was looking at him with anxious eyes. "Did you take your pills this morning?" she reproached.

John tried to remember, but he couldn't. He shook his head, and instantly regretted it as the drum beat increased tempo. "I think…I forgot," he croaked.

The queasiness was receding, and he let his head drift to the side, and he saw Rodney, but Rodney wasn't looking at him. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored. "McKay?" he shouted, alarmed. "Marie, something's wrong with Rodney." John watched as the man's lips began to turn blue.

Marie ran over to McKay's bed, and rolled Rodney on his back, pulling his head up to clear his airway, and she began to listen to his chest. John's vision dimmed, and he fought to stay conscious, but he was losing the fight. "Rodney," he groaned, knowing it was his fault, and that was the last thing he was aware of, because the room faded to black.

**Atlantis…**

Elizabeth was pacing in her office. She'd attended the memorial service. She'd given her speech, and felt it entirely inadequate to sum up the two men in the time allotted. How could you explain the uniqueness of a man that walked outside the lines, because he had such a strong sense of right and wrong in five minutes? How could you tell everyone that behind the bluster and ego was a man willing to give his life for every member of the expedition, even Kavanagh, ass that he was? If she'd had hours, she mused, she couldn't have done the two men justice, but isn't that the way it is for remembering great people? The people that come along once in a lifetime, and leave their mark in indelible ink, so that it can never be washed off, regardless of how many tears you shed.

She was rolling a stress ball in her hands as she paced. It had been a gag gift years ago from Simon, and it had seemed like a good idea to bring along at the time. Sumner had issues with her bringing Sheppard on board, and she had foreseen a lot of aggravation between the two. She'd thought she'd have to spend more time keeping the two apart. She hadn't realized that Sumner wasn't going to make it to the end of the first week, and that Sheppard would become her military leader. She hadn't realized how damn much she'd grow to care about someone she'd brought along just for his genes.

In a fit of anger, she threw the stress ball across the room, and enjoyed the resounding thud as it hit the wall, and rebounded weakly. The material being designed to give, it bounced only enough to fall back from the wall and roll under the desk.

"Am I interrupting?"

Weir looked up. Carson was standing not a foot away from where the ball had hit, and from the look on his face, she'd almost hit him. "Yes, you are," she answered bluntly.

Beckett came in anyway. "Doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that," he remarked, and then winced, because he knew they were both thinking of one specific rocket scientist…astrophysicist. "Sorry," he said lamely.

"What do you need, Carson?" she asked tiredly, not acknowledging his foot in the mouth moment.

He folded his arms, and leaned against her desk. "Ford and Teyla should be released tomorrow. I thought you'd want to know."

She eyed him critically. "You came up here to tell me that?"

Carson hated to give her false hope. He'd debated back and forth about telling her, but ultimately, he figured any hope was better than none. "Elizabeth," he started, "The blood work on Ford and Teyla revealed something that I thought you should know about."

For the first time, he saw a spark of interest in her dull eyes. "What is it?"

"It's a compound that I've never seen before. I believe it's hallucinogenic in nature. I'm not sure of the purpose," he paused. "It might have been native to the planet."

Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry. The implications of what he said…did he even realize? "Carson, did you ever read any of the mission reports from SG-1?"

"Some," Beckett replied. "Not many," he added honestly. He'd been primarily concerned with the medical files, but even those had been staggering, and he'd had his own research to cope with regarding the Ancient gene.

"There was a mission years ago where three members of SG-1 were made to believe their teammate, Doctor Jackson, was dead."

Carson frowned, trying to figure out where Elizabeth was going. "If you're implying that's the case here…"

Elizabeth had a triumphant gleam in her eye. From the beginning, something had felt off with this whole thing, and now her intuition was leaping to connect the dots. "That's exactly what I'm implying. It's almost the same thing, down to the others dying in a fire…on the original SG-1 mission it was volcanic eruptions that supposedly claimed Jackson."

"It's been over a week," protested Carson. "Do you really think it's possible?" There was a lot he wanted to say. That she was grasping for straws, that whatever had happened to SG-1 was a long time ago, in a different place…but he didn't. He didn't say it because he wanted to believe as much as she did.

She was nodding, and already moving to the intercom. "If there's even the slightest chance, don't we owe it to them to check it out?" she asked. She didn't wait for an answer, instead she depressed the comm, "Sergeant Bates, gather a team, and meet me in the briefing room in fifteen minutes."

She looked towards Beckett, as if she expected him to object, but he shrugged. He wanted Major Sheppard and McKay back as much as anyone, and if she thought it was possible, who was he to argue. He only hoped she wasn't letting herself get carried away, because if the floor dropped out from under her feet, it was going to be a long hard fall. "If you're right, I've got a vintage bottle of scotch that's on me," he said, and followed her out of her office, towards the briefing room.

"It's a date," she said. The easy part was finding something to allow the possibility for them to be alive, and Beckett had given her that. Now came the hard part…finding if there was any truth to it, or proving it to be only a fool's errand. Time would tell. She steeled her nerves. Time…

**Back on M4X-578…**

"Major, wake up!"

John groaned. He didn't want to wake up, because every time he was awake, his head hurt. Already the calling voice was dragging him from a world without pain, and he didn't want to leave.

The voice tried again. "Major Sheppard, please. You must wake up, or I won't be able to save you, or your friend!"

That made John pay attention. He blinked rapidly, focusing on Marie's face. He was still in the room, and he remembered what had sent him into unconsciousness. "Rodney?" he asked, and he was scared she'd say it was too late…but hadn't she said she was trying to save him, and his friend?

"Alive, but he's very sick," she confirmed. He noticed her eyes were wide, and frightened, and he wondered why.

"What's wrong?" he asked. While he waited for her to explain, his mind processed that he wasn't lying in a wet bed any longer. She must have changed the sheets while he was out. He looked to the right, and saw Rodney was there, and he was breathing, but he was out for the count, not even flinching when Marie began to talk.

"I thought I could do this…I thought I could go along with it, but…"

Her words made him focus back on her, and he realized how uncomfortable she was. She was sitting on the bed, and if her back were any straighter, it'd snap in two. She was twisting the blanket in her hands. "What is it, Marie?" he asked again, but this time his voice was lower, and more demanding, and at the same time, he tried to project a calmness in his question, so that she'd trust him enough to explain.

"John, before I say more…" she leaned forward, and grabbed his face, pulling him to her, and she kissed him, deeply. At first, he was shocked, and remained unresponsive, but as she continued, he felt himself kiss her back. Her lips were soft, and he wasn't immune to her touch.

She pulled away, and he saw her reddened lips, and knew his probably looked the same. She was smiling, but it was bittersweet, an unwelcome portent of what was to come, and he narrowed his eyes because he suddenly knew he wasn't going to like this. "I never wanted to hurt you," she said. "I never meant to fall in love…"

"What did you do, Marie?" He couldn't believe how calm he was being, because there was a growing dread in the bottom of his gut. He knew that all that he'd come to know was about to be shattered, and he was willing her not to say what he thought was coming, but at the same time, he knew he needed to hear the truth.

"My people are dying," she swallowed, and she couldn't keep looking him in the eye. She turned her face down, and stared at her hands. "We had no choice." She was speaking so quietly that he could barely hear her what she said.

"What did you do?" his voice rose higher, forcing her to listen, and hear him. He wasn't going to let her get off with whispering away whatever wrong she, and her people, had done.

"We used your head injury to get inside your mind. We've been giving you drugs that made you susceptible, so we could find out about you, and your people." She finally said it, and John felt himself grow stone cold.

He sat there, and he felt a hatred grow where he'd once cared. "You tricked me," he accused, but it was more than that. They'd gotten into his thoughts, his memories, and taken from him, without permission. "I trusted you."

There were silent tears cascading down her face, and he felt a thrill of pleasure, because he was hurting her, yet it wasn't even close to what he felt, and he wanted it to be. He wanted her to feel as horrible as he did. "I'm sorry," she sobbed.

He shook his head. Sorry didn't cut it, not for this level of betrayal. "Why?" he bit out. "Tell me why!" He grabbed her wrist, and tugged her forward, not caring if it hurt her.

"The Wraith don't know we're here," she said, and her voice dropped, and broke, as she exposed the biggest secret of all. "We had to make sure you weren't involved. That we hadn't been discovered."

All those flashes of memories, they'd been doing it to him. All of it, how much did he remember? How much had they seen? "What's real?" he asked, wondering now about everything that had happen since he had woken in this house.

She pulled her hand, the one that he still had clasped in his own, and touched his face. "I'm real," she whispered, "You're real…"

He forced her hand down. He wasn't going to give her the comfort she was seeking. "You were never real," he said. She'd lied. From the beginning, it'd all been a lie. "Can you help McKay?"

She nodded, wiping away the wet streaks on her face. "That's why I'm telling you this. John, you are dying, and they won't help." She was scared. He could see it now, even through his anger. "I tried to get them to see that you aren't a danger, and some of my people agreed with me, but the council wouldn't listen."

"The injury?" he asked. _It_ was real. "I don't…how can I trust you? What about Rodney?"

Marie looked over at McKay, and John saw that his bandages were clean. The doctor had to have come when he was out. "Same for him, if I don't get you two out of here. They're only willing to treat your injuries enough to keep you alive. Once they get what they need, they'll let you die."

John didn't get it. He closed his eyes, and he saw himself and McKay, sitting at a table, _look, what you people do with your C4 is none of our business_, _we just need food, as far as your little secret down here goes, well…_John saw himself look over at McKay, who looked at him, and back at some men in a uniform. Rodney nodded slowly as he caught John's train of thought; Rodney smiled self deprecatingly, _we say 'what giant underground bunker'. _John tried to shake off the memory. That had been another culture that had tricked them, but he couldn't remember what it had been about. What had those people done to him? What were these people doing to him? He opened his eyes again, and Marie was watching.

"You had another flashback, didn't you?" she said. "John, we need to go, if they find out what I've done, then I'm as dead as you two are."

"How can I trust you?" John knew the skin on his forehead was bunching up, as he tried to concentrate. If he could just get his mind to clear, he could figure out what he should do, but his mind didn't want to cooperate, and his thoughts were foggy, and confused. "How do I know you're telling the truth now?" What he'd seen of the people, and what she was telling him now, it didn't seem to go together. It wasn't like all the pieces of a puzzle fell into place. It was more like someone was taking a serrated knife and tearing at the fabric of reality.

"You don't have a choice," she said bluntly. Marie got to her feet, and she began to move away from the bed. He reached out, and grabbed her hand. She froze, and looked at his hand on hers, before meeting his gaze.

He pulled his hand back, as if burned. "How?" he asked. What choice did he have? Trust her, and maybe live, or not trust her, and die. He wanted the flashbacks to stop.

She understood what he was asking. "Ada agreed to help get you two to safety. We've got to go through the mountains."

"Mountains?" His mind flashed back to a vision of the mountain, the same one he'd seen before his ship had been shot down. "My ship?"

"I'm sorry, it's gone," she said. To his eyes, she didn't look sorry, but maybe that was more to do with his rose colored glasses being removed. She'd destroyed any illusion of his that she was a nice little alien, only out to help, and he shoved the disillusionment to the side. He'd deal with it later.

"Then we really did crash?" he asked. He saw again the terrain rushing up through the window, and felt the impact jar his body, even though he knew he was lying in bed, and not in the ship.

She saw that he had a lot of questions, and wanted the answers, but she couldn't give them to him right now. "Later, John," she promised. And she slipped out the door, leaving him lying in bed, hating her, and wishing at the same time that he could trust her. He had conflicted emotions that were made all the more troubling by his inability to rely upon past experiences to show him the way through the minefield he'd been thrust into. He looked again at Rodney, and it bothered him that McKay hadn't moved during Marie's confession. He wanted to get up, but he knew he'd never make it.

It seems Marie was being truthful about one thing, he was getting worse, and so was McKay. He closed his eyes, and fell again into a vision from another day and time. _I'd like to say something while I still can,_ and he felt the pain from that time, he had known he was going to die. A voice replied; _Don't, you're going to get through this. _He chuckled, and he felt himself chuckle in sync with his memory, in the present, on the bed, and he felt himself saying, in the dream and out loud, _If I was…he wouldn't have let me go_. Was it happening again? Was Marie pulling another fake, another tactic, in which he and McKay would die, and there hadn't been any hope of escape to begin with? He didn't have any answers. He didn't even know where here was. He'd have to trust, and pray it didn't cost them their lives. He closed his eyes, and waited, riding out the visions that continued to assault him.


	5. Part Five

** Somewhere in the mountains on M4X-578…**

Marie stared dispassionately at the man lying strapped to the bed. On an impulse, she brushed a strand of stray dark hair away from his eyes. She watched as those same eyes moved underneath his closed eyelids. Attached to his arm was the nutrition line, and on his head, just above his right eye, was the link to his mind.

"You did good, Marie."

Marie didn't smile, or turn at the voice. She continued to stare at John's body. She wondered if the end justified the means. She wondered if the hatred she felt for herself would ever go away.

She felt the hands on her shoulders, and knew they belonged to the man who had spoken behind her. He gently spun her around, to face him. Ada smiled kindly. "You know we have to do this," he remonstrated, lifting her chin so she looked him in the eye, but she kept her eyes cast downward.

Did she know? "They aren't a risk. They never were," she said bitterly, disputing his claim.

Ada dropped his hand from her face, and frowned, not liking the change that was coming over her. "You don't know that. None of us do, and with so few left, can we take the chance?"

Marie turned back to look at John, and her eyes trailed over his body to that of McKay's, lying to the right of his friend, and trussed up in the same manner, with a wire linking his thoughts to John's. "We do now," she whispered. "They are enemies of the Wraith, not agents."

Ada was shaking his head, negating what Marie was trying to say. It went beyond that, and she knew it. "The second they detected our power signature, we had no other option. You know that when the Wraith capture them, and they will eventually capture them, our presence would be detected," Ada scolded, and he let his desperation, and his own feelings of remorse loose into his words. "I don't want to do this anymore than you, none of us do. But tell me that those two men mean more to you than our people!" he demanded. "Tell me, Marie!" He was pointing angrily at the still figures. His gray hair shook under the weight of his compassion - for Marie, for the Eladeans, and even for the two men whom he was leading to an early grave.

Marie couldn't. She wanted to rise above it. She knew that John would've said it. He would've fought to save their lives, even though the other, McKay, would have said the same thing as Ada. Two lives for two hundred, more or less - it had to be a fair exchange, but it left a bitter taste. "I did it, didn't I?" she said, defeated. "He thinks I'm taking them to the gate."

Ada again approached her, reaching hesitant hands to her arms, trying to console his daughter. "And when you get him there, we'll have the address, and we can end this, I promise."

Marie continued to stare at the figures, and her mind wasn't on the deception regarding the escape. Her mind was on the end. "Father…it won't hurt, will it?" she asked tremulously, and she fought against the pain growing inside. She couldn't bear to think of killing these men. Killing John. John, who reminded her so much of her husband. He had died fighting to protect their people's escape from their world, so that they could live here, undetected, and hopefully someday recover enough to eradicate all Wraith in the universe.

"No, Marie," he comforted. "It won't hurt."

She placed one of her hands over her Father's, and leaned her face into it, feeling like she was a little girl again. "That's good," she whispered. "I don't want him to hurt anymore."

**John's world…**

Another sharp pain above his right eye, and John became aware of his slow move into wakefulness. He tried to get a grip on where he was, and what had happened. As the memories began to return, he also became aware of McKay, breathing raggedly to his side. "McKay?" he whispered. He waited, but all he heard was the continued labored breathing.

_Damn_, he'd have to get up. He forced his body to move, but it was sluggish, and the effort took his breath away. He managed to get up, and thanked his lucky stars that McKay's bed was only a step or two away. He made it, and sank down thankfully on the welcoming surface, watching McKay's body tilt towards him as his weight caused the mattress to dip lower where he'd sat. There was a line of drool trailing out the corner of Rodney's mouth, and John reached over with the edge of the blanket, and wiped it off. "You'll thank me later," he said quietly.

As he looked closer at McKay's face, another vision intruded. He was lying in a field, the grass damp with dew, and the smell of burnt flesh and smoke overwhelmed his senses. He felt rocks poking against his body, and he pushed off the ground, already looking for McKay and asking, _you okay_? He saw Rodney lift his head and answer him. _I'm fine._ _This is…this is fun for me._ He felt an almost physical jolt as he returned to the present. These visions were eating him alive. He still had only bits and pieces, these flashes, and still no names other than McKay.

Speaking of, he narrowed his eyes at the figure on the bed. "McKay, wake up," he tried again.

This time he was rewarded with Rodney's eyes blinking up at him. "Sheppard?" he croaked. "What…?"

"You…" Sheppard stopped, because he found himself somewhere else. He was in a large room, one he'd seen before, with a gigantic round artifact towering to his right, and McKay was lying on the ground, blinking up at him like he'd done moments ago. John had given him a half-grin, more a wry twist of his lips than an actual smile. _You must have passed out, _he said. A spike of pain, and his hand flew to his forehead. "…must have passed out," John finished.

McKay had slowed his breathing, and was watching him worriedly. "Another flashback?"

John was almost afraid to open his mouth. Words, thoughts…it seemed anything was up for grabs on triggering these flashes of his past.

"This is great. We're stranded, and you're going back and forth more than a shell shocked soldier from a world war."

"I'm not shell shocked," protested John.

McKay shrugged. "Denial isn't just a river in Egypt."

"That's original," retorted John. "For a genius, you suck at witty comebacks."

"Geniuses don't reinvent the wheel," McKay said, smiling smugly.

John stared at the egotistical man, and glared. "You know, I'm kind of glad I didn't remember you," he said.

"Is that the best you can do?" McKay asked, his face registering disappointment. John realized this was a game that he and McKay had played out more than a few times.

"Give me time, I'll think of something," he said. _Something_…images swirled, and he was standing next to a console, and McKay was there. _McKay will come up with something._ He saw McKay grimace, and reply, _I will **try**, but despite what you all may think, I am not Superman. _John saw himself look around the room, at the other nameless people standing around him and McKay, and he asked, _was anyone seriously thinking that?_ John realized his eyes had drifted shut as he was ravaged by the vision. He forced them open, "You're not Superman," he murmured.

Rodney stared at him, annoyed. "I never said I was, your point?"

John took a ragged breath of his own. "Nothing," he replied. "No point."

"Twilight zone to Sheppard," McKay snapped. "Stay with me."

"Where would I go?" John asked, confused.

"Wherever you keep going," explained McKay, and the harsh edge was gone from his voice, and John realized he was being watched more closely than he had realized.

"I'm okay," he tried to reassure McKay.

Rodney didn't buy it. "You're not okay, and neither am I, but try to stay with me so we can get out of here."

That reminded John, and he wanted to smack himself for forgetting. "Marie is going to help get us home," he told McKay. The thought that he didn't know where home was intruded into his mind. McKay started coughing, and John helped him into a sitting position, patting his back, trying to help Rodney breathe.

"Jesus, Major, are you trying to kill me?" McKay spluttered.

John stopped pounding on the man's back. "I was trying to help," he said, and pulled his hands back. Once his support left McKay's body, Rodney fell back, and hit the mattress and pillow, yelping as his bandaged upper body made rough contact.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?" enquired John sweetly.

Rodney grimaced, but John saw the look of resolve in McKay's face, and knew McKay would never give him the pleasure of admitting it had. "Not at all, refreshing, actually," Rodney gritted through clenched teeth. "You were saying?"

Right, Marie, and their big escape. "Seems Marie's people aren't as nice as they pretend to be. She's going to get us back to the gate." John kept the explanation short and simple; one, he wasn't sure how long he'd have before another flashback took him away, and two, he didn't have much to add.

Rodney tried to get settled in a position that wasn't causing him more pain, but he wound up causing more problems than before, getting twisted in the sheets. "Glad to see hormones didn't rule the day," he grouched, as he fought to untangle himself.

John reached over and tugged the problematic sheet free of Rodney's torso. "My hormones could kick your hormone's butt any day." As the sheet came free, Rodney was jerked away from John. "Sorry," he said waspishly.

The door opened, and Marie hurried in. "Ada's here, it's time to go," she said, and before John could protest, she started picking up his discarded clothes, and tossing them on his lap. He looked dumbly at the black trousers and white shirt, realizing they were the same clothes he'd been wearing. He lifted them to his face, and pulled away in disgust as the smell hit him. "Isn't there anything else to wear?"

Marie put a hand on her hip, and regarded him like he was a child pushing away his dinner plate, and refusing to eat his vegetables. "John, we don't have time for this, wear the clothes."

"Yes, John, wear the clothes," mocked Rodney.

"I wouldn't be so eager to tease your friend, Doctor McKay," scolded Marie, and she lifted some type of hospital gown off a chair, and approached McKay. Rodney scooted back as much as he could, until the pain got to him, and he held up his hands to ward Marie away. "Oh, no way, I am not wearing that nightgown," he protested.

"Just wear the clothes," John mocked Rodney, returning the favor.

McKay pointedly ignored John. "Come on, there's got to be something else?" he whined.

"Not with your bandages," Marie declared, and she lifted McKay's back off the bed, slipping the gown over his head, and tugging it down his shoulders. She laid him against the mattress, and eased first his right arm, then left, into the sleeves.

Marie turned to find John still staring, clothes in his lap. "John?"

But John was gone, lost in another flashback. He was standing in front of a cell, walking around the perimeter, and he felt his heart lurch as he realized it was a Wraith behind the bars, and the Wraith was talking. _You waste time…I'll provide you with no information. _He felt cold determination. _Wonder what hurts more, the gun shot wound or the hunger? Because I'd love to help out, but…how did McKay put it__ We can't meet your dietary requirements. _

"Twilight zone boy!"

The darkened cell room warped, and vanished, leaving him staring at the pile of clothing. "What?" Disoriented, John looked around. Marie and McKay were staring at him, waiting. He looked down again at the black pants. As his mind caught up, he pulled the shirt over his head, and mumbled, "Knock it off, McKay." He felt like telling whoever was in charge to stop the ride, he wanted off.

Ada burst into the room. "Marie, we need to go!"

Marie helped McKay to his feet, and John didn't ask any more questions. He pulled the pants on, and grabbed his shoes, following them out the door. At the front door he slipped into the warm weather clothing that was waiting, and watched as Ada and Marie helped McKay into some kind of blanket wrap. "We've prepared a wagon for you two. It won't be very comfortable," she warned.

He didn't have time to reply, because they were already moving outside. In front of the timber fence he remembered admiring what seemed like weeks ago, was a waiting wagon with a team of horses harnessed to the frame. He thought he recognized them. "Darling and Jack?" he asked.

"Who'd you expect?" Marie asked.

He followed them to the wagon, feeling the snow crunch under the boots he'd hastily slipped on over his shoes. He felt like pointing out that those couldn't be the only two horses on this planet, but then he wondered maybe they were. He heard McKay grunt in pain as they helped him into the bed of the wagon. He sympathized with Rodney. His head had steadily grown angrier with the movements, and he felt like his brain was on the verge of exploding.

There was a pallet made up, and as far as accommodations went, he figured it could be worse. Not much…but it could always be worse. Judging from the strained look on McKay's face, his thoughts weren't shared. "Can't you give him something?" he asked, not liking how gray Rodney had gone.

Marie climbed over the back of the seat, settling next to Ada on the bench at the front of the wagon. "You know we can't, John," she replied. She picked up the reins, and clucked to the team. Marie hadn't talked about any of the emotions she had showed earlier, and John wondered if it was because they were in a hurry…or if it was because Ada was here, now, and she didn't want to admit to her feelings in front of the other man.

John stared at her rigid back, before turning away, and checking on Rodney. "You okay?"

Rodney was laying stiffly on the blankets, and John could see the white lines around his mouth that betrayed how much pain he was experiencing. Rodney grimaced. "Oh sure, having burns over half of your body, and having them bounced around feels wonderful," he said dryly. "I'd recommend it to every masochist I know."

"That sucks."

McKay lifted his head, just enough to look Sheppard in the eyes. "Why does that suck?"

John grinned. "Because you're the only masochist I know."

Rodney dropped back down with a long, suffering groan. "This is all my fault," he moaned to himself. "It's karma, for all the crap I gave Carter, while secretly undressing her in my mind."

John stared at McKay with sick fascination. "And you rode my ass about hormones?" he finally accused.

Rodney let his head roll to where he could look at John, without lifting his head. That took more effort than he had to spare. "Have you seen Samantha Carter?"

"No," said John. "What about her?"

"She's hot, Major," explained McKay. "If you looked in the dictionary under hot, you'd find her picture."

"Oh, that's too bad," John consoled.

McKay was back to looking up at the gray, cloud-skudded sky. "Why?"

"Because any girl that'd make the definition of hot wouldn't be seen in public with you."

"Ha ha…"

Marie twisted to look at the two men, and they didn't see her watching them as they fell into the easy bantering that came naturally to their odd friendship. She wondered what it would have been like living on their world, where the scariest thing to fear was their own people. They hadn't gotten a lot of concrete information from Sheppard. Most of it was interfered with by his recurrent flashbacks that took over their efforts at directing his memories, and with the exception of one he'd had while he was sleeping, one in which he'd tossed a coin sitting on a grassy hill, they'd seen nothing of his home world.

Ada pulled at her arm, directing her to face forward. "Stop that," he said, lowering his voice so only Marie could hear him.

"Stop what?" she asked crossly, equally as quiet.

"Watching them. Wishing it didn't have to be this way."

"Father…" Marie started.

Ada put a finger to her lips. "Shhhh, no more, Marie."

Marie didn't argue, but she couldn't stop from taking another look back. She wondered if she'd always be looking back after this was over.


	6. Part Six

AN: Just a short note to say thank you for the reviews, great to get so much feedback, and to let you all know that there is only one more part to come (and it's already written).

** Meanwhile, the team departs Atlantis for M4X-578…**

"Ma'am, as chief of security, I'm advising you to stay behind," cautioned Sergeant Bates. He was holstering his nine mil, and adjusting the straps on his pack. They were going by Jumper, but this time, they'd be prepared. Sheppard's team had been caught with their proverbial pants down, not expecting the unexpected, and by the time they'd realized they were being shot at, they hadn't been able to get the shields up in time to do any good.

Elizabeth fixed Bates with the steely look he was getting to know, and he knew she was resolute, and wouldn't back down. He sighed. "In that case, take this." He handed her the spare pistol he'd brought, knowing all along that she wouldn't listen.

She took the proffered weapon, and held it awkwardly, before sliding it into position in the holster she'd buckled to her thigh earlier, feeling the solid weight pull on her leg. "Let's hope we don't need to use these, Sergeant."

"Yes, Ma'am," Bates agreed, but secretly, he was hoping to shoot the bastards, if they existed, that had caused this fiasco. He and Sheppard had their differences, but the Major was a steady officer, and when you removed their butting heads from the equation, he respected the Major's leadership. It was his job to present different opinions, and argue for even the slightest possibility if he thought it presented a danger to Atlantis. They were all doing the best job they could given the circumstances, and the Major and Doctor McKay didn't deserve to die like this…or to have their deaths faked, and kept imprisoned and stranded on M4X-578.

Sergeant Markham and Sergeant Stackhouse manned the pilot and co-pilot chairs, respectively, while Bates, Doctor Beckett and Weir settled in the back, on the bench. Bates felt the Jumper lift, and heard Markham communicating their status to Grodin. He knew the gate was being dialed, and soon they'd drop through the floor, and accelerate into the event horizon.

"You think they're really alive?" Bates asked Weir. He'd wanted to believe when she'd presented her theory at the meeting.

Elizabeth looked at him, and he realized she might not believe it, but she was staking more than her life on it. "I do," she said. He waited for her to say more, but she'd stopped there, and he guessed it'd have to do. They'd find out soon enough.

**Back on M4X-578…**

"John, we're here," called Marie.

John groaned, and tried to roll away, but he hit an unyielding object. He swallowed, and tried to get a grip on where he was. He cracked his eyes open, and reached out with a searching hand, feeling what he'd bumped. As he became more aware, his mind interpreted the signals it was receiving. The object was McKay, and he was still in that wagon.

"Here?" he repeated.

Marie was leaning over the back of the bench, and her face was inches away. She was staring at him with…pity? "The gate, we're at the gate, John."

The gate…an overwhelming flare of agony traced fire from his right eye, to the base of his skull, and he saw himself standing in front of a DHD. He was somewhere else…here…but not here. It was the first time! They'd gated to this planet, and returned, needing a Jumper…_Jumper_? His ship, they called them Puddle Jumpers. He saw his hand reaching out through a fog, and pressing the symbols for Atlantis. Atlantis! The city, with the great towering spires, it was called Atlantis.

"Major!"

John's hand hesitated in the air, as he was reaching for the third coordinate. "Rodney?"

"Don't show them the address!"

John flinched. It took all the effort he could muster to keep his hand from moving to the fourth symbol. How'd he get to the DHD? Hadn't he been in a wagon, lying beside Rodney? "What's happening?" he shouted. He couldn't see a wagon, or McKay, or anyone else. It was as if the edges of his vision had gone gray, and like an old movie picture, he had only the sight immediately in front of him. He couldn't turn his head.

"This isn't real. It's all in your head!" John heard McKay shouting behind him. But why wasn't McKay up here next to him, and why did he think this was all a trick?

"How?" John asked. "Why?"

Suddenly, a hand touched his, and he found his gaze moving up, and looked into McKay's eyes. Rodney was staring at him, horrified. "They're in your mind, Major. They've been manipulating you the entire time."

John tried to focus, but his head hurt, and he felt himself waver. "You've been here," he pointed out to the Rodney standing next to him. The one that wasn't wearing a nightgown and bandages anymore, but wore a scorched jacket, and had a reddened face.

"They used me," he spat. "They hooked me to you…think, Major. Did I ever tell you anything about what happened? Did I ever try to figure out how to get us home?"

John didn't think so. He tried to remember. His mind scrambled to put two and two together. Two plus two equals four…the factorial of seven equals five thousand and forty. "How are you here now?" he struggled to hold on to reality.

"A back door," McKay said. "Take that, you…"

"McKay," John interrupted before he could begin insulting their captors. "Do they know?"

McKay hesitated. "McKay…" John warned.

"Okay, okay. I don't know…maybe. Just…don't show them the address, whatever it takes, that's what they want."

John knew his mind was still a few bullets short of a full chamber, but why was the address secret? Wasn't there something else…some other security measure they used? "But we have a…"

"Shut up," snapped McKay.

John shut up. He turned away from Rodney, and looked again at the DHD. The first three symbols were lit. He turned back to ask McKay what should he do, only to find Rodney was gone. "McKay?" he called into thin air.

"John?" Marie whispered in his mind. "Dial the gate, John, and you can go home."

"No," he replied succinctly. He dropped his arm. The room wrinkled, and folded in on itself, and he opened his eyes, even though they'd already been opened. He was startled to find himself in some kind of lab, and he was staring at a white ceiling. He tried to get up, but found he couldn't move. His senses slowly recovered, and he realized he couldn't move because he was strapped down. A memory; he'd seen this before, in one of his flashbacks.

He heard footsteps running towards him, and he tried to raise his head to look, startled to feel wires attached to his forehead. He wanted to yank them out. Frustrated, he pulled at the straps, needing to free his hands to eradicate the technology that was in his mind.

The footsteps were upon him, and he knew it was too late. He saw Marie and Ada looking down at him, and he shuttered his panic. Never let the enemy see you sweat. "Nice little place you got here," he said glibly.

Marie had regret painted all over her pretty little face, and John could've cared less. "I'm sorry," she told him, and she reached down to grasp his hand. He struggled, not wanting her anywhere near him.

"Don't touch me," he warned, low and angry, when he realized he couldn't avoid her. Did she think he would forget, and forgive?

She stopped. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

Ada was keeping a calm face, but John could tell he wasn't pleased. Good for him, John wasn't either. "You shouldn't have done that, Major," Ada said coolly. He saw Ada step to the side, and he tried to follow with his eyes, but he had limited mobility. "And you, Doctor McKay, made things a lot worse. I see we underestimated your condition."

"People do that a lot," McKay whispered to John's right. "Underestimate me," he explained further.

John fought to get a look at Rodney, because he sounded weak, and it alarmed him. "McKay?" he called.

"Here," Rodney answered. "Can I get you anything; a drink…newspaper?"

John moved his head against the straps, and grinned with the relief of McKay's answer. "Coffee, black," John played along with McKay, knowing Rodney needed it.

He gave up trying to see where McKay was. There was something keeping his head from moving, and damned if he didn't have an itch right under his nose, on his upper lip. He worked his mouth; trying to ease it, and wished it was the worst thing he had to worry about.

Marie was still watching him, and he squirmed uneasily. "Is this where you tell us all about your evil plan, and why we have to die?" he asked dryly, striving to keep the worry out of his voice. John knew that they were in a bad spot. With no way of getting loose, the second these guys said their time was up, their time was up. There wasn't any plan B hidden up his sleeve. Was he even wearing sleeves?

"We didn't have a choice," Marie replied. "I didn't want to do this, John. You have to believe me."

"Oh great, an interrogator with a conscience," sniped McKay, from somewhere to his side.

Marie frowned at Rodney's callous words, but there was an old saying, the truth hurts. John's senses were slowly returning. He realized he wasn't wearing his uniform anymore. They'd put them in something else, almost felt like hospital scrubs, close enough he guessed. They were in a lab, so it was guinea pig clothing. Marie wasn't wearing the old fashioned dresses he'd seen in the dream world they'd been in. Dream world, virtual world, make-believe world…whatever it was called. She wore a white blouse that was tucked into a pair of black pants, and her brown hair was contrasted beautifully against the stark white. He hated her, but at the same time, he was still drawn to her. "What are you going to do with us?" he asked, finally.

Ada walked back into his line of sight. "Nothing," he answered John.

That didn't sound good. The way Ada had said it. The finality, the lack of explanation…they weren't getting out of here alive.

John was on the verge of asking for an explanation, even though he already figured out that it wasn't going to be what he wanted to hear, when he felt his bed start shaking, it was followed by a loud boom, and dust from the ceiling fell against his face. He blinked, trying to get his eyes clear of the debris. Before he could ask what was wrong, he saw Marie and Ada tense, and turn to face something he couldn't see.

"Major, Doctor McKay, are you alright?"

John felt like his body melt like butter, so strong was his relief. The cavalry to the rescue…if only he could remember who exactly was the cavalry. "Fine," he called. He didn't even recognize who'd asked if they were okay.

"Against the wall, hands up where I can see them!" Another voice ordered, low and menacing, and John knew that whoever was speaking would shoot if they gave him even the slightest provocation.

He was staring up, because he couldn't do anything else, when a face appeared over him. He tried to remember who it was, but he had nothing. "Major, we're getting you out of here. Hang on, son." The man speaking had a soft, comforting accent.

"McKay," John said. He wanted to know that Rodney was all right. He felt the straps being yanked, and unbuckled. His body rocked with the motion, and then the man was easing him up, pulling the wire off his head, and brushing off the dust that had fallen on him moments before.

"I'm fine," Rodney answered, and now John could see him. The bed he'd been strapped to was only a few feet over, and McKay was wearing a pair of white pajamas. The person helping McKay was tugging off the wires, and he met Rodney's eyes, and held them for a second, both of them sharing the relief that they'd been rescued.

He looked down, and realized he was, in fact, wearing the same thing as McKay. He also realized that the man next to him was waiting for him to say something, but he didn't know what to say. "Thanks," he said, for lack of anything better coming to mind.

There was a woman, the one he'd seen in all those flashbacks. She came up to him, and he wondered what her name was. She was smiling, but looked like she was on the verge of crying, all at the same time. He regarded her solemnly. "Atlantis?" he said.

"Home, John," she answered him.

He nodded, accepting her reply. "Home," he repeated.

A commotion drew their attention to the hole that their rescuers had blown in the laboratory wall. People dressed as Marie and Ada swarmed into the room, and they held dangerous looking weapons aloft, pointed at them. John heard McKay groan, and he looked at his friend, who had slumped against the bed he'd been released from.

Before he could formulate a thought, Marie had stepped in front of him, and was staring resolutely at her people. Ada came near, but she held her hand out, "No, Father. This is wrong."

Ada stopped moving towards his daughter. "Marie, don't do this. You know how this has to end."

Marie shook her head, and John watched as her father waved at his people to lower their weapons, at least for the time being. "No, it doesn't. We saw enough to know these people are no threat to us."

The brown haired woman beside him stepped to Marie's side. "We pose no danger to you," she reiterated. "We only want our people back."

Ada looked like he wanted to believe. But, he was already shutting it out, and sticking with his original beliefs. "You know too much. We are only alive at the expense of thousands of our own people. They gave our lives so that we could escape. Nobody knows where we went, not even the Wraith."

"You can't hide forever," Rodney said angrily. "The Wraith are out there, and they'll find you. It might take a while, but eventually they will find you. Killing us won't prevent the inevitable."

"Maybe," Ada conceded. "But if they catch you first, and read your minds, they'll know all the sooner where to come looking."

John wanted to condemn these people for what they'd done, but he knew their actions were not that unusual. Killing to protect the many wasn't a new concept. "We won't be caught by the Wraith," he said. He didn't remember much, but he did remember that they were, at the very least, equals to the Wraith when it came to fighting. He'd killed Wraith…more than once. "You saw me kill them. We won't give up without a fight."

Ada's face was torn by frustration. "There are too many of them! Don't you understand that?" he snarled. "Do you think we gave up without a fight? Nobody does, Major. We all die fighting. But we still die."

"Then let us die together, Ada. Let us go down fighting, together." John said intensely.

Marie sensed the tide shifting. "Are we going to kill them, Father? Kill them all, and when more come after these, kill them also?" she said derisively. "Then we're no better than the Wraith. At least they kill for food, we're just killing."

Ada aged in front of John's eyes, and he knew they'd won. He turned his back on John, and Marie. "Go," he said tiredly. "Just go, and don't come back."

The brown haired woman took John's arm, and started guiding him towards the forced entrance. John stumbled with her, but looked back at Marie, as they moved away. She was staring at him. He could tell she wanted to say more, but she didn't. She smiled sadly, and moved instead to her father, comforting the old man.

John sighed. There never was a happy ending. Only in fairy tales. They weren't living out a fairy tale, they were living out one of those 'and the moral of the story is' tales, where there was always a lesson to be learned out of tragedy. He felt the man with the accent near his side, and he gave him a weak smile, just because he thought the man needed to see it. Rodney was close by, and he looked as mentally damaged as John felt. His memory was still full of holes, and he knew that they wouldn't bounce back from this like a kid's rubber ball. He was back in a memory, as they led him out, led him towards home. A memory of Marie, kissing him passionately, and he couldn't help but think that hadn't been part of the game.


	7. Epilogue

**AN: Yes, it's been finished, but my beta was busy, and then I was busy so a bit of a delay! Don't mind me, I understand the frustration, it's hard to wait when you enjoy a story so I'm flattered that you are eager for the rest! I feel the same way when I'm following WIP's! I swore I wouldn't do one again because I hated making people wait, but on the bright side, this thing was finished in record time (for me)! I love hearing from everyone who reads and I sure appreciate those who take the time to give feedback (coming from someone who is guilty of not leaving enough).  
**

** The next day, in the infirmary…**

John wanted to go back to his quarters. The infirmary was noisy, and busy, with all the people bustling about. It seemed like everyone in the city was finding an excuse to drop by. A sore throat, a cough…a stubbed toe, and each person lingered at the door, staring at him and McKay.

He might have appreciated it more if his memory had returned, in full, but it was still full of holes; a piece of swiss cheese that had been nibbled on by a mouse. The man with the accent was Doctor Carson Beckett. He'd remembered that after they'd returned. Beckett had assured him that as the drugs wore off, his memory would return. John hoped he was right.

He was propped up in the infirmary bed, and as much as everyone was finding an excuse to stare at him, he was staring back. He'd made a game out of trying to remember names, and events. Sometimes a name came to him, sometimes pieces of memories.

He heard the door open, and looked up. Ford…the name came quickly to his mind, and he flashed back to the time on M4X-578, when he'd remembered a brown-eyed man as their ship went down in flames. "Lieutenant," he said softly.

Ford was grinning, and walked over excitedly. "It's good to see you, Major."

John noticed the limp, and as Ford got nearer, he also saw signs of superficial burns healing on his face, and hands. "You're alive," John said, not sure what else to say. Until he'd walked through those doors he hadn't had a name to put to the face, and the face he'd thought dead, back on that planet.

"Last I checked," Ford joked then grew solemn. "Sir."

"At ease, Lieutenant," Sheppard said. "How?"

He didn't have to explain what he meant, Ford understood. He had come to a stop next to Sheppard's bedside, and he held his hands uneasily behind his back. Standing was still hard on his healing leg, but he wouldn't sit. "Sir, I want to apologize for leaving you and Doctor McKay," he started, ignoring Sheppard's question.

John realized then that the easy grin Ford had walked in with was a ruse. A mask to cover the tortured emotions Ford was hiding inside. "Sit," he ordered the Lieutenant. He saw the effort it was taking for Ford to stay on his feet.

"Yes, Sir."

He watched as the young man sat in a chair, keeping his leg stretched to ease the discomfort. "Lieutenant, I'm not going to lie, and pretend I remember all that went down…"

As Ford's face fell, he continued, "But, from what McKay has said, and what I've heard from Doctor Weir and Doctor Beckett, not only did your actions save your own life and Teyla's, it also provided the key for our rescue."

He could see Ford didn't understand. "What do you mean? I left you there! It's my fault…"

"Ford, listen!" he interrupted harshly. "We were already gone, do you get that? They'd already taken us. Call it fate, or whatever you want, they didn't see you and Teyla. Beckett thinks the weapon they used contained the drug, and once we were out of the ship, we were all exposed. If you hadn't made it back, they never would've found us." He winced at the memory of McKay dragging him out of the burning Jumper; he'd been knocked senseless, and he'd been only vaguely aware of what was going on at the time.

"But…"

"Lieutenant, we thought you two were dead. Marie and her people thought you were dead, because it's what McKay and I remembered. It was the only reason they kept us alive as long as they did. If they'd known their secret was out, they probably would've killed us, and waited for any one of you to return. It would've been an ambush waiting on the other side of the gate."

John saw that he was finally getting through to the Lieutenant. Ford was beginning to accept the situation for what it was. Some times you were left with all the what-if's in the world, and it still didn't change what happened. "Look, you've got to learn to get over stuff like this. It's never easy, but if you let it eat you up, you'll be incapable of acting the next time…and the time after that, if you survive. You can't constantly question your judgment, you've got to act, and accept the consequences for what they are."

The unspoken truth was that John knew about consequences. In his scrambled mind, he remembered the path that had brought him to where he was. The act that had earned him a reprimand, and a black mark, and shipped him off to the heel of the world. He'd acted, and accepted the consequences, and he'd be damned if he'd ever go back and question his actions. He'd done what he'd had to do.

"I understand, Major," Ford replied soberly.

He studied the Lieutenant. "Not yet, but you will," he said finally. "Get out of here," he smiled. "I heard Beckett say you weren't supposed to be moving around on that leg."

"Yes, Sir," Ford agreed. He knew Beckett would read him the riot act for being up. But he also knew Beckett would understand the need that had driven him here. "See you later, Major," he said, and gave a weak wave, before shuffling out the door.

John watched him leave, and sighed. He'd thought the ones that would need healing would be him and McKay. He had been surprised to learn it was a lot more than that. Everyone that had come to visit so far had been screwed up, in one sense or another. Beckett had fawned over them, to the point where even McKay had snapped and told Carson to find some other patient to pester. This coming from the man who whined that he was going to die over a paper cut.

Speaking of McKay…John looked over at the bed next to him. McKay was snoring away. John wondered how Rodney was managing to sleep. He hadn't figured out how to, yet. They'd been back for almost a day, and the best he'd managed was a light doze, only to be jolted awake by the memories. He was back in the house, with Marie…and then the hospital. Marie was always there. Her face was haunting him. She loved him, and she had been close to killing him.

"John?"

He jerked, startled by the voice. He had been staring at Rodney, and hadn't heard the door open, or the approaching footsteps. He focused on the source. "Elizabeth," he acknowledged.

"How do you feel?" she asked him. She wasn't sitting either. He wondered if they were all afraid to sit, and stay a while. Maybe they weren't ready to believe that he and McKay were really back.

"Better," said John. He knew it was what she wanted to hear. He didn't want to tell her about the dreams, the mixed up memories of her and Marie, and her face replacing Marie's.

"Liar," she accused softly. She was wearing a red shirt, and her dark gray uniform pants. Her brown hair lay lightly curled against her head. She looked just like he'd remembered.

He dropped the pretense. It took too much effort anyway. "I will be." He knew that was truthful. She did too, because she didn't argue with him.

"You were missed," she said instead. She was still standing, and she'd folded her arms around her chest protectively.

He hoped so, but he couldn't remember much about these people to know if it were true. "I don't…"

"I know," she said simply, interrupting him. "Give it time."

He smiled ruefully; did she always finish his thoughts? "Thanks," he said, not knowing what else to say. From his jumbled memories, he knew she was important to him, but that was all he had right now.

She looked over at the snoring figure of McKay. "How's he doing?" she asked, ignoring the sudden awkwardness. John glanced over at McKay. "Him? Fine, I guess. We haven't talked much." That was something he knew they'd remedy, once McKay was up to it. Rodney's burns had been superficial, but the lack of medical care they'd gotten had caused him to suffer, same as John's head had suffered. Between the drugs, and the injuries, they'd be in the infirmary for a few days.

Elizabeth frowned, and John was worried she was going to go there…go into the whole mind rape thing. Kate Heightmeyer, Atlantis's psychologist, had already paid him a visit. She'd been one of the first. He'd told her to go fly a kite, more politely than that, but it amounted to the same thing. He didn't need a shrink right now. He needed this…his friends, being home. He'd get over what the Eladeans had done, but he'd do it on his own terms.

What she was going to say, he didn't know, because she merely nodded. "It's good to have you back, John," she said instead.

"I know," he said. And she knew that he knew. She unfolded her arms, and started backing towards the door, still staring at him, and he knew that she was on the list of people that would need to recover from this, as well. He'd heard about the memorial they'd had for him and McKay. He'd heard about her speech. And he'd heard about the stress ball that had almost given Beckett a concussion. She didn't know that, of course, because Beckett had let it slip when he was fussing over them after they'd gotten back.

He watched, as she finally turned, and retreated, leaving him once again alone, and listening to McKay's rhythmic snores. He looked again at McKay, and a thought occurred. He picked up a napkin that was on the tray beside his bed, and wadded it up. Once he had condensed it into a sturdy enough missile, he lobbed it at McKay's head. Direct hit!

McKay's snoring halted, and he lifted a hand up to his face, batting away what had struck him, before he had finished waking up. "Huh…"

"McKay! You're awake!" John said, exaggerating his words. "Just the guy I want to talk to."

Rodney blinked at the ceiling, before turning to face Sheppard. "You threw something at me," he accused.

"Please, what would I throw at you? There's nothing here," John said. He purposefully avoided looking at his tray.

McKay's eyes searched his bed, and the floor, and he glared at the wadded up napkin. He looked from it to Sheppard, but instead said, "What do you want?"

Something had been bugging John ever since they'd gotten back. "How'd you do it? How did you know what was going on, and how did you get through their programming?" he asked. If McKay hadn't broken through, John would've handed over the address to Atlantis. It scared him how closed he'd been to divulging the sensitive information.

Rodney looked at him, and it was an annoyed look. John glared. "Humor me, McKay," John said, not quite pleading, but there was enough begging inflected that Rodney got the point that this was something he really needed to hear.

McKay rolled his eyes at the ceiling, but he didn't go back to sleep. "They were using me to program responses…I wasn't an active participant; remember, I never did anything but respond to your actions in that world."

John did remember, now. He hadn't noticed it then. He'd thought it was tied to Rodney's injuries. "So…" he said.

"Okay, try to understand this, but you probably won't be able to because…well, I'm the genius here…"

"McKay…" threatened John. There was another napkin on that tray.

"They read the responses from my mind, and they'd essentially play them to your mind. Once I figured out what they were doing, and why, I simply programmed a response, and let them play it. They didn't realize what I'd done till you responded. It was too late. Their system was efficient and by the time they realized what I'd done, and yanked you out of there, you knew not to give them the address." McKay was smiling smugly in his bed, and John had to admit, that was pretty genius of him, but it'd be a cold day in hell before he stroked his ego.

"Cool," he settled for saying instead.

McKay's jaw dropped. "Cool? Cool is for 'how's the weather', or 'nice shirt', Major. Cool is not for turning an alien virtual reality against itself…do you even realize what that took?"

John guessed cool wasn't quite enough for McKay. "Not exactly," he admitted. Truth was, he didn't. But he was impressed, even if he didn't totally comprehend that magnitude of McKay's accomplishment.

McKay seemed to settle back in his bed. "That's why I'm the brains and you're the…"

"…brawn?" finished John.

McKay seemed pleased that Sheppard got it. "Basically." Rodney paused, and looked over at him again. "So, you getting your memory back?"

John grinned. "Bits and pieces…I know you don't like lemons."

McKay spluttered. "Don't like…try deathly allergic to!"

John shrugged, "Close enough." Payback's a bitch…

"Oh, that's funny…ha ha," McKay snapped.

John smiled, and he wanted to tell Heightmeyer, and everyone else, that it'd be okay. They were going to get through this. Just like they always did. Just like always. McKay continued to spout off about his citrus allergy, and Beckett came rushing out of his office at the commotion, followed by a few nurses. They all began to converge on the source of the noise, and Sheppard let it all fade in the background as the sleep that he'd resisted finally claimed him.

Later, when Beckett checked on Sheppard after they'd finished harassing McKay, Carson was startled by the easy smile on John's sleeping face. Beckett slipped his hands in his pockets, and waltzed back to his office, relaxing for the first time since they'd returned.

The End.


End file.
